The White Rose murders

Chapter 10

Benjamin sat on the stool next to my bed and wiped the sweat from his face. He looked paler and thinner.

'I'm sorry, Roger,' he mumbled. 'It's a long story. I went to Kelso in Scotland.' He looked away, lost in his memories. 'A lonely monastery surrounded by a sea of dark purple heather and deserted, haunted moors. A grey-slated, dark-stoned building.' He smiled thinly. 'Oh, I was safe enough. Agrippa gave me a safe conduct and the Lord d'Aubigny arranged for moss troopers to guard my every step.'

'What did you find?' I asked crossly.

Benjamin rubbed his eyes on the back of his hand. 'Nothing,' he replied. 'Nothing at all. Many Scots fled to Kelso after Flodden, but you know something, Roger? No one could remember a single event from those stormy days.' He furrowed his brow. 'Even stranger, the prior, the sub-prior, all the officials of that monastery, had been changed. Some had died in rather mysterious circumstances, others been sent abroad on this task or the other. The rest,' he shrugged, 'were as silent as the grave. Only one old lay brother, a hoary old man, mumbled about the abbey being the dark pit for the evil deeds of the Great Ones of the land.'

He sighed. 'Then I came south to Royston but Queen Margaret and her party had already returned to London to collect all their possessions so I followed in hot pursuit. I visited the Lord Cardinal at the Palace of Sheen. He already knew about our mission to Nottingham being successful and welcomed my visit to Kelso and your journey to Paris.' Benjamin took a deep breath. 'Then I fell ill. At first I thought it was some ague but it proved to the Sweating Sickness. Uncle sent me to St Bartholomew's and Agrippa brought an old lady who fed me on a concoction of crushed moss mixed with the leavings of sour milk. The fever broke but I was weak.' He patted me gently on the shoulder. 'The Lord Cardinal sent an envoy but the fellow was ambushed, apparently killed by robbers outside Dover.'

'I don't think so,' I tartly retorted. 'He was killed by assassins just like the bastards nearly murdered me at Le Coq d'Or!'

'What do you mean?' Benjamin asked.

I told him my story in sharp, succinct phrases. Benjamin listened carefully.

'I'm sorry,' he apologised. 'I have been in Paris a week. The landlord here swears he knew nothing of you.'

'He's a liar!' I interrupted.

'He may well be. Anyway, I went to the Provost of Paris. I invoked all the Lord Cardinal's power to organise a search for you. Actually, the pardon was issued last night.' He grimaced. 'But you know officials.'

'Yes, I do!' I snarled. 'Only too well. The bastards had me hanged!'

Benjamin bit his lip. 'I agree with you, Roger, but your troubles began with that piece of red silk. It was the signal for your murder. Undoubtedly the demon who dogs our footsteps has agents in Paris.'

'That may well be so,' I answered, 'but Moodie gave me the cloth, so he must be the assassin.'

[Ah, there goes my chaplain again, jumping up and down on his stool. 'I told you! I told you!' he cries. I just tell him to shut up and give him a sharp rap across the knuckles. The little turd doesn't know what he's talking about.]

'Tell me,' Benjamin continued, 'you say the silk had a fragrance. Did you recognise it? Was it like this?'

He undid the neck of a small pouch and held it under my nose. I sniffed. It was the same fragrance I had noticed around Madame Eglantine's gift. 'Yes. What is it?'

Benjamin smiled and spilled the faded white rose petals which fell soft as snowflakes to the floor.

'Les Blancs Sangliers!' I murmured. 'Moodie must be one of them. He killed Selkirk, Ruthven and Irvine, though God knows why or how.'

Benjamin shook his head. 'No, it's more subtle than that.' He looked at me quizzically. 'What are you smiling at, Roger?' The anxiety drained from his face. 'You know something, don't you?'

I grinned.

' "The truth Now Stands In the Sacred Hands of the place which owns Dionysius' bones!" '

'You know what it means?' Benjamin whispered.

'Oh, yes, and it's not far from where we're sitting. Dionysius is not some Greek god!' I cried, forgetting the bruise which racked my neck and the heavy fatigue which still held my limbs in a vice-like grip. 'He's St Denis, the Roman martyr beheaded on Montmartre Hill, who carried his head, so legend says, to where the Abbey of St Denis now stands.'

Benjamin got up, kicking over the stool behind him in his excitement.

'Of course!' he breathed. 'Dionysius is Latin for Denis. The monks there must have Selkirk's secret!'

I swung my legs off the bed. 'Yes, we'll find it there in a battered casket.'

Benjamin looked at me suspiciously. 'Why didn't you go to St Denis yourself?'

I rubbed the weal where the rope had chafed my neck. 'Oh, yes,' I replied sarcastically. 'An English beggar dressed in tatters swaggers up to the abbey gates, asks for a casket to be handed over, and the monks cheerfully comply.'

Benjamin grinned. 'They will now!' He tossed a bundle of clean clothes at me. 'These will not make you a courtier, Roger, but at least you won't be a beggar!'

'I'm tired,' I moaned. 'My neck still hurts. I want food, wine, proof that I'm still alive.'

Benjamin crouched down beside me, his long, dark face drawn with anxiety. 'Roger,' he insisted, 'we must hurry. Time is important. No doubt the murderer already tracks our footsteps, and we must resolve this mystery before Queen Margaret leaves for Scotland. We have to go to St Denis, find Selkirk's secret and return to England as soon as possible.'

I nodded glumly.

Benjamin brought a fresh cup of wine and a bowl of greasy soup. I ate, gulping like a dog, and then changed my clothes. The evil turd of a landlord, a vacuous smile on his slack face, came up to enquire after my health. I grinned wickedly back and told Benjamin to wait for me in the street outside. I made my preparations and joined him as quickly as I could. We walked up the beaten trackway, slipping and cursing on the icy ground underfoot. Behind me, the candle I had so carefully placed in the dry straw in the garret of Le Coq d'Or kindled into life and the flames turned the evil tavern into a blazing inferno. Oh, yes, revenge is never so sweet as when it's deserved.

Although I had escaped from Montfaucon, the ice cold day soon curbed my elation. The city was still held fast by winter and the journey was cruel and hard. I ached from head to toe and the wound in my throat, inflamed by the cold, created a circle of pain around my neck and shoulders.

We passed the gallows, the corpses of the less fortunate now freezing hard at the end of their ropes, then through the gateway of the city and towards the Abbey of St Denis. God knows, it's an awesome, inspiring place; soaring gables of stone, grinning gargoyles, huge windows full of coloured glass, towers which pierce the sky and fretted stonework with a carving on every cornice, turret and pillar. St Denis is the royal mausoleum of France where the white alabaster tombs of the kings lie in quiet hope of Christ's Second Coming. A strange place, cold and sombre. The abbey is a veritable city in itself; its granges, buildings and outhouses sprawl across the countryside, circled by a huge curtain wall which is guarded by soldiers wearing the livery of the royal household. Of course, alone I would have been turned away. Benjamin, however, with his fluent grasp of French and armed with the personal recommendation of the Lord Cardinal of England, soon gained admittance. An austere prior welcomed us into his chamber and listened carefully to Benjamin's request.

'Many people come here,' he replied quietly in perfect English. 'They bring gifts and treasures which they commit to our care. Some return, some do not.' He spread his hands. 'They place their trust in us.' He looked sharply at Benjamin. 'You swear that Selkirk is dead?'

'I do, Father Prior.'

'And his secret is one which may threaten the English throne?'

'Perhaps,' Benjamin replied. 'But it has been responsible for the deaths of at least three good men and may cause the deaths of others, including our own.'

The prior moved uneasily behind his desk. He pointed to the Bible chained to a great lectern beside him. 'Swear that!' he rasped. 'Swear what you say is true, with your hand on the Gospels!'

Benjamin obeyed. One hand placed on the great, jewel-embossed cover and the other held high, he proclaimed in solemn tones that God be his witness, what he said was the truth. Once he had finished the prior nodded and his granite face broke into a thin smile. He rang a small hand bell. A young monk entered to whom the prior whispered hoarse instructions. I heard the name 'Selkirk' and a possible date. The young monk nodded and padded softly away, returning soon afterwards with a small, battered leather coffer sealed with the waxen crest of the Abbey of St Denis. The prior broke this and lifted the lid. He felt around inside, his long fingers picking up scraps of parchment. He looked despairingly at Benjamin.

'You say Selkirk was mad?' 'Yes, Father Prior.'

'Then this may be his last insane joke. There's nothing here but innumerable scraps of parchment. Now my conscience is settled, you may take it.'

We left St Denis as darkness fell and made our way to a tavern outside one of the gateways of Paris on the main road to Calais, a warm comfortable place which had escaped the ravages of famine which still afflicted the city. Benjamin hired a chamber as well as fresh horses for the morning. He also ordered a meal of succulent roast capon cooked in rich sauces and freshly baked loaves of pure wheat rather than the coarse rye bread I had eaten the previous months. I gorged myself to the gills although Benjamin ordered me to be temperate with the wine. Afterwards, we sat in the ingle-nook of the great fireplace watching the roaring flames turn the pine logs to a white smouldering ash. Benjamin opened Selkirk's casket and for a while sifted amongst the pieces of parchment. One was singular: a dirty yellow piece, jagged at the top and bottom; only the heading was discernible, a quotation in Latin from one of St Paul's epistles. It simply said: 'Through a glass darkly'. The rest were a jumble of hieroglyphics and strange signs. There were some complete manuscripts but these were nothing more than a collection of royal warrants written personally by King James and sealed under his signet ring, granting tasks or favours to his 'beloved physician, Andrew Selkirk'. Benjamin studied some of these and so did I but we could discover nothing amiss. My master placed the documents back in the casket.

'Let us refresh our memories,' he said. 'Selkirk was King James's physician. He went with the King to Flodden where James was defeated and killed. Selkirk fled to Paris, left his so-called secret at St Denis and went to Le Coq d'Or where he was arrested and taken to England.' He stared at me. 'You would agree with that?'

'Yes, Master.'

'Now, in Scotland, James's widow Margaret, the mother of one infant, is pregnant again when she hears the news of her husband's defeat and death. By King James's will, she is made Regent but forfeits that position by marrying the Earl of Angus. She also loses the confidence of her nobles and is forced to flee to England, leaving her two boys behind. The Scottish nobles set up a Regency Council with control of Margaret's baby sons, one of whom, Alexander, Duke of Ross, dies soon after his mother's sudden departure for England. Am I correct Roger?'

'A number of matters,' I replied, 'must also be remembered. First, before James went to Flodden, he had so-called visions which warned him against his loose morals and of the dangers of invading England. Secondly, why should Margaret suddenly marry the Earl of Angus and then, within such a short time, desert him; indeed, even hate him? Thirdly, why did she shelter in England away from her kingdom and her sons? We heard from the Lord d'Aubigny that the Scottish Council is more than prepared to welcome Queen Margaret back with open arms.'

'Which,' Benjamin continued, 'leads us to this sudden change in the Queen's mood. It seems that she cannot return to Scotland fast enough. I'm sorry. Go on, Roger.'

'I wonder what Margaret was so frightened of? And what secrets she and the Earl of Angus share? Don't forget, Master, there are other mysteries which may be contained in the documents in that casket. What did Selkirk mean by the phrase he could "count the days"? And why has King James's body not been returned to Scotland for burial?'

Benjamin nodded and stared at the dying flames of the fire.

'Which brings us to Selkirk's verses,' he said. 'We know the falcon is James, the lamb is Angus, the Lion also is the King of Scotland. Is Selkirk saying that somehow King James survived Flodden? Something we suspected when we viewed the corpse at Sheen.'

'Perhaps,' I interrupted. 'The verses do say the Lion cried even though it died. Finally, we have discovered who Dionysius was but not the real secret left with him.'

Benjamin picked up the casket and carefully examined the lining, searching for any secret compartment or hidden drawer.

'Nothing,' he murmured.

'Which brings us, Master,' I said, 'to the murders once more. Both Selkirk and Ruthven were found poisoned in chambers locked from the inside. No poisoned cup or dish was found there.'

Benjamin agreed.

'Whilst Irvine,' he remarked, 'could have had his throat cut by any member of Queen Margaret's household except for four; you and I who were at the convent, and Catesby and Melford who were in Nottingham. We also know that the Queen herself did not leave the manor house.'

'Which means,' I concluded wearily, 'that we do not know who the murderer really is, although we suspect Moodie. We do not know Selkirk's secret, even though we hold it in our hands. Above all, we do not know the meaning of the first two lines of his damnable poem, "Three less than twelve should it be, Or the King, no prince engendered he!" '

On that merry note we both retired for the night. Benjamin spent most of the time sitting in a chair staring at the guttering candle flame, whilst my sleep was racked by terrible nightmares of my visit to Montfaucon. The next morning Benjamin dressed my wounds and we began our journey back to Calais. The weather improved and, although the roads were clogged with icy mud, we soon reached the Channel port where Benjamin used his warrants and his status to secure our passage home on a man-o'-war.

A terrible journey, believe me! If Hell exists, it must consist of being eternally sick on a ship which crosses the Narrow Seas but never reaches shore. I disembarked at Dover, cursing Benjamin, the King, the Lord Cardinal, and heartily wishing I was back in Ipswich, free from the baleful influence of the Great Ones of the soil. Matters were not helped when we found Doctor Agrippa waiting for us in a seaside tavern, cheerful and full of life as a well-fed sparrow. The fellow never seemed to age, nothing changed him; no lines of worry on his cherubic face, while those hard, glassy eyes shimmered with a quiet amusement.

He greeted us effusively, clasping Benjamin warmly by the hand. He insisted we join him for dinner where he regaled us with tidbits of gossip from the court and city.

'How did you know we were coming?' I asked crossly.

He smiled as if savouring some secret joke. 'I have my sources,' he quipped. 'The Lord Cardinal told me to come here. Your return was only a matter of time.' His face grew hard. 'You have news?'

'Yes and no!' Benjamin joked back. 'However, the game is not yet over and, if you'll accept my apologies, we still cannot discern friend from foe.'

That enigmatic little magician ignored this possible insult and deftly turned the conversation to other matters. We stayed one night in Dover, then travelled across a frost-hardened countryside back to London. Only God knows how he knew but Agrippa insisted we arm ourselves. He also warned us that, once we were back in London, we were to be careful where we went, to whom we talked and what we ate and drank.

His warnings proved prophetic. We were on a lonely stretch of road just outside London: it was late in the afternoon, darkness was about to fall and we were arguing about whether we should hurry on to the city or stay at some roadside tavern for the night. Our assailants, muffled and cloaked, seemed to rise out of the ground, running swiftly towards us, armed with dagger and sword. Now, in the ladies' romances, such encounters are full of brave oaths and heroic stances. However, I consider myself an expert in the art of assassination and murder and, I tell you this, violent death always comes quietly.

One minute we were riding our horses, the next we were surrounded by five villains intent on murder. Benjamin and Agrippa drew their hangers and set to with a will, the eerie silence of that lonely road shattered by grunts, muttered oaths and the scraping clash of steel. I drew my own sword, shouting defiance and encouragement to the rest. But, oh, Lord, I was frightened! These were not your ordinary footpads, they would never attack three well-armed, mounted travellers. Oh, no, these were assassins, despatched by the arch murderer we were hunting.

'Roger!' Benjamin shouted. 'For God's sake, man!'

Now I had been hanging back, attempting to develop some strategy.

[No, that's a he! My chaplain's right, I was petrified. Now you talk to any coward, a real coward like myself, and he'll tell you there's a point where fear becomes so great it actually turns into courage, not out of anger or fury but that marvellous innate desire to save your own skin. On that London road I reached such a point.]

Two assailants were pressing Agrippa whilst the other three had apparently forgotten me and were intent on bringing my master down. I closed my eyes and spurred my horse forward, my huge sword rising and falling as if I was the Grim Reaper himself. It's a wonder I didn't kill Benjamin but, when I opened my eyes, two of the rogues were dead of huge gashes between shoulder and neck whilst Benjamin was on the point of driving his sword straight through the breast of a third. Agrippa, his fat face covered in sweat, had already despatched one but now had lost his sword and kept turning his horse sharply to counter his final opponent. I waited until the fellow turned his back, charged and felt my sword sink deep into his exposed shoulder. The fellow whirled and, as he did so, Agrippa finished him off, plunging his dagger firmly into the man's back.

Death is so strange: one minute noise, blood, screaming and retching; the next, a terrible silence. You old soldiers who read my memoirs will realise I speak the truth. So it was on that fog-bound, lonely London road. Benjamin and Agrippa, chests heaving, cleaned their weapons. I sat like a Hector until I suddenly remembered my stomach and began noisily to vomit. Nevertheless, both my master and Agrippa were loud in their praise of my martial prowess. Naturally, I can resist anything but flattery and lapped it up like a hungry cat does milk. Of course, I glimpsed the wry amusement in Agrippa's eyes but Benjamin looked at me oddly.

'You're a strange one, Shallot,' he murmured. 'I'll never understand you.'

I dismounted and searched the corpses. I found nothing noteworthy except on one, possibly the leader, who had a considerable amount of silver which I pocketed for distribution to the poor. We then continued our journey, pushing on until we reached the city walls and lodged at one of the fine taverns on the Southwark side of the river. Oh, it was good to be back in London! To see and smell the greasy rags of the poor; the silk-slashed, perfumed doublets, velvet hose and precious buckled shoes of the rich. The pompous little beadles; dark-gowned priests; the lawyers from Westminster Hall with their fur tippets; and, of course, my favourites, the ladies of the night, with their hair piled high, low-cut dresses and heels which clicked along the cobbles. A bear had broken loose amongst the stews; a whore was being whipped outside the gates of St Thomas's Hospital; two butchers who had sold putrid meat were riding back to back on some old nag, their hands tied behind them, the rotten offal they had sold fastened tightly under their noses.

[Ben Jonson is right, London is a wondrous city! Within its walls you can see the whole spectrum of human behaviour: the splendour of the rich moving through the streets on damask-caparisoned palfreys and the bare-arsed poor who would slit your throat for a crust of bread.]

Strangely, Benjamin did not wish to visit his uncle who was wintering at the Bishop of Ely's inn just north of Holborn. He insisted we went direct to the Tower. We took the route through Cheapside because the Thames was frozen from bank to bank, past the mansions of the rich, the stalls full of fripperies, the mouldering Eleanor Cross and the great Conduit which was supposed to bring fresh water into the city. I say 'supposed to' for it had been frozen over and, beneath the ice, I glimpsed the scrawny corpse of a dead dog. The city was just recovering from one of the usual bouts of plague which come in late winter; its citizens, however, sensed the worst was over and the streets buzzed like an overturned hive. We reached the Tower through Poor Jewry, passing the house of the Crutched Friars and then through a postern gate which stands near Hog Street. Benjamin and Agrippa had fallen strangely silent.

Only as we entered the Tower did Benjamin lean over and whisper, 'Roger, pretend we discovered nothing. Keep your thoughts hidden and your counsel concealed until we find the truth about this party of knaves.'

Benjamin's 'party of knaves' had re-established themselves in the Tower waiting for spring to dry out the roads so they could travel north. Sir Robert Catesby greeted Agrippa warmly, taking him aside for secret consultations whilst ignoring Benjamin and me. At last I grew tired of such rudeness. The grooms had taken away our horses and I did not wish to stand like a servant on the freezing forecourt of the tower.

'Doctor Agrippa!' I called out. 'What is the matter?'

He apologised and walked back to us arm-in-arm with Catesby, who now gracefully bowed to both of us.

'Welcome back, Master Benjamin, Shallot. I apologise for any offence given but there has been another death, though one which may resolve the mysteries which have plagued us.'

'Moodie's dead!' Agrippa flatly announced. 'Not murder this time,' he added quickly. 'He died the Roman way.'

Benjamin cocked his head quizzically.

'He killed himself,' Catesby declared. 'Asked for a bowl of warm water from the kitchen, locked his chamber and slashed his wrist.' 'When was this?' I asked.

'Yester evening. His body was not found until late at night.'

I stared up at the grey sky and the black ravens which circled above the battlements like the souls of men condemned to wander the earth forever.

'You said his death may resolve the mysteries?' Benjamin abruptly asked.

I stamped my feet on the cobbles as a sign that I was freezing. Catesby took my point, smiled, and led us up to his own warm, spacious chamber in the Lion Tower. He served us mulled wine sprinkled with cinnamon and heated with a red hot poker and then emptied the contents of a saddle bag on to the table; it contained a few faded white rose petals and pieces of parchment. The latter were passed around for us to examine. Most were notes, drafts of letters or memoranda concerning secret Yorkist plans as well as proclamations written anonymously to be nailed on the doors of churches up and down the kingdom. They were full of the usual childish nonsense about the Tudors being usurpers and that the crown, by right and divine favour, should go to the House of York – in reality a pathetic bundle of faded dreams and failed aspirations. Agrippa studied them with a smile. Benjamin just dismissed them, tossing the documents back on to the table.

'So Moodie was a supporter of the White Rose,' he said quietly. 'A member of Les Blancs Sangliers. But why should he kill Selkirk and Ruthven?'

Catesby shrugged. 'God knows! Perhaps he saw them as a threat. Perhaps Selkirk's verses contained information which he wished destroyed.'

'Do you really believe that?' I asked.

Catesby shook his head. 'No,' he answered slowly. 'No, I don't. Perhaps it was just an act of revenge.' He sighed. 'There's neither rhyme nor reason to Moodie's suicide.'

He sat down heavily. 'I don't know how Selkirk and Ruthven died,' he murmured, and looked up. 'Do you?' Benjamin shook his head.

'Moodie could have killed Irvine,' Catesby continued. 'He did leave Royston for a while at the same time as you, and a priest would be acceptable within the convent walls at Coldstream.'

'What does Queen Margaret say?' asked Benjamin.

Catesby shrugged. 'She mourns Moodie's death and has her own explanation of it.' He paused to gather his thoughts. 'Her late husband, James IV, at one time supported the cause of the White Rose and then deserted it. She believes James was not killed at Flodden.' He coughed, the sound shattering the eerie silence of the chamber. 'Queen Margaret believes,' he continued, 'that her husband was murdered at Flodden by a member of Les Blancs Sangliers who have since waged continuous war against those who advised her late husband, such as Selkirk and Ruthven.'

I sat back, surprised because what Catesby said made sense. Agrippa toyed with the tassels on his robes whilst Benjamin just stared into the middle distance, lost in his own thoughts.

'But why,' he asked eventually, 'would Moodie now kill himself?'

'Because,' Doctor Agrippa intervened, 'he probably thought that you or Shallot would have discovered something during your travels in Scotland and France to trap him.'

Again, Agrippa's conclusions were logical; after all, Moodie had arranged the deadly attack on me in Paris.

'How was your mission?' Catesby queried.

I shrugged. Benjamin just laughed.

'Let me put it this way, Sir Robert, if Moodie dreaded our return then he had very little to fear.'

Agrippa sighed noisily, I don't know whether from relief or disappointment.

'Ah, well!' Catesby rose. 'Soon this matter will be finished and Her Grace will leave for Scotland. She is very busy.' His boyish face lit with a smile. 'But I know she wishes to see you.'

Agrippa excused himself whilst Catesby took Benjamin and me across to the Queen's spacious chamber on the second floor of the Tower just next to St Stephen's Chapel. [Or was it St John's? I forget now.] Well, the fat bitch had made herself comfortable! She had a beautiful room, painted red and decorated with golden moons and silver stars. Tapestries hung on the walls and Turkey rugs covered the polished floor. Margaret herself was dressed in a tight-fitting, damson-coloured gown which emphasised her full, rounded figure whilst her golden hair was unbraided and hung down to her shoulders. She looked warm and comely but her eyes were still black as night and her face spoilt by that false, simpering smile. The Careys were also in attendance: Lady Carey glowered whilst her husband busied himself at the far end of the room, totally ignoring our existence. Melford the killer was there, lounging like an alley cat on a bench against the wall, whilst the bastard Scawsby was mulling a glass of wine for his mistress. He turned away as we entered, shoulders shaking as if relishing some private joke. Queen Margaret took us both by the hand, welcoming us back and handing Benjamin a small purse of silver coins.

'Your work on my behalf is much appreciated, Master Daunbey,' she simpered. 'I would ask you to stay longer, but His Majesty the King has invited me to a masque at Richmond.' She waved a hand to indicate the dresses scattered around the room; some of taffeta, others of damask or cloth of gold. The false smile spread. 'Time is passing and I must go.'

We bowed and left, Catesby showing us to the door. We wandered back into the freezing bailey. Benjamin leaned against a wall watching a butcher at the far end of the yard hack a haunch of beef into huge, steaming slabs, the blood pouring like red streams over the rough-hewn carving block.

'Roger, Roger,' he murmured, 'what is going on here? One minute we are involved in matters of state, murder, Yorkist conspiracies, and the next we are dismissed because Her Grace wishes to attend a masque!'

Catesby had told us we had our old chamber in one of the towers but Benjamin insisted that, before we retire, we should examine Moodie's corpse which had been placed in the death house, no more than a wooden shed built against the walls of the Tower Church, St Peter ad Vincula.

Well, believe me, I have seen corpses enough, bodies piled six, seven feet high, left to steam and rot on battle fields as far flung as France and North Africa. I have seen heads hacked off and stacked high in baskets, and more bodies hanging from the branches of trees than I have apples in an orchard. Nothing, however, is more pathetic than a solitary corpse lying on a cold slab in a disused shed.

Moodie may have been a priest but in death his body had been laid out like some broken toy to he on a shelf, the grimacing features half-hidden by a dirty cloth; the eyes still open, sightless and empty. Some attempt had been made to straighten the limbs and that was all. Apparently, he was to be interred in the clothes he died in, wrapped in some canvas sheet and either buried in the cemetery of a nearby church or the small graveyard on the other side of the Tower church. Two days dead, the body was beginning to putrefy and the stench made both Benjamin and myself gag. Benjamin muttered the Requiem, stared at the mottled-hued face and carefully examined the wrists of the dead man. The left was unmarked but the right bore a huge, deep gash which must have drained the blood.

'A painful way to die, Master.'

Benjamin shook his head. 'Not really, Roger,' he said, his voice muffled by the hem of his cloak which he held up to cover his nose. 'The wrist is cut and placed in warm water. They say death comes like sleep, a painless way to oblivion. The senators of ancient Rome often used it.'

I took his word for it and we left, glad to be free of the ghastly place. Outside Benjamin stared up at the darkening sky.

'The game is not over yet, Roger,' he murmured. 'Believe me, Moodie did not die in vain.'

He would say no more. We retired to our chamber, made ourselves as comfortable as our bleak quarters would allow, and later joined the rest of the household when they gathered to dine in the small hall. Queen Margaret had already left in a blaze of colour, escorted by Catesby and Agrippa, riding along Ropery, then Vintry Street into Thames Street, where she would meet a troop of her brother's royal Serjeants at Castle Baynard.

Catesby, if he had stayed, might have put a restraining hand upon the petty malice of his comrades. Previously they had ignored us: now they let their malice show. Carey (his wife had gone with Queen Margaret), Melford, Scawsby and the two killers from Clan Chattan, Corin and Alleyn, swaggered into the hall. To be truthful, I had forgotten about Earl Angus's gift to his estranged wife but the two Highlanders still remembered us. They smiled, displaying wicked-edged teeth, and once again I was reminded of hunting dogs studying their intended quarry. Benjamin and I sat at one end of the trestle board, they sat at the other, grouped together like stupid boys immersed in their own private jokes. The garrison had already eaten so we were alone. The servants brought platters of over-cooked, rather rancid meat, garnished with herbs, and once they withdrew and the wine circulated, Melford began talking at the top of his voice about sending boys to do men's work. The two Highlanders grinned as if they understood every word, Carey smirked whilst Scawsby gave that neighing laugh which made the blood beat in my temples. Coward or not, I could have plunged a dagger straight into his black treacherous heart. Benjamin ignored them, lost in his own thoughts, but at last Scawsby, his sallow face flushed with wine, rose and came to stand over me.

'So glad to see you, Shallot,' he purred. 'Another errand, another failure, eh?'

Benjamin nudged me with his knee so I looked away. Scawsby leaned closer and I wrinkled my nose at his sour breath.

'You are a base-born rogue, Shallot!' he hissed. 'If I had my way you would be buried like your mother in a pauper's grave!'

Benjamin seized my wrist before I could grasp my knife.

'Come, Roger!' he murmured. 'We have eaten our fill.'

He dragged me away for I could have killed Scawsby on the spot and anyone else who tried to interfere. Outside the hall, I turned to Benjamin.

'You should have let me kill him!' I accused.

'No, no, Roger, they are full of wine and their own importance. They think the game is over and we are to be whipped off like hounds, back to Uncle.'

'If you could prove Scawsby was the murderer!' I hissed. 'After all, he knows poisons.'

Benjamin looked away. 'Scawsby,' he murmured, 'is he the murderer or just a spiteful man who rejoices in the humiliation of others? But I tell you this, Roger, Moodie was innocent of any crime. He no more committed suicide than Selkirk or Ruthven!'