The White Rose murders

Chapter 3

My words were prophetic. The next morning was clear and bright. A strong sun was burning off the river mist as Melford swaggered into our chamber and announced, 'The Lord Cardinal wishes to see you both. He has also ordered that on the way I should show you something.'

Do you know, I sensed what was coming as we grabbed ' our cloaks and followed Melford out of the Tower. My worst fears were confirmed when, instead of taking a barge, Melford, striding ahead of us, took us up Aldgate and into the stinking city streets. Benjamin sidled closer.

'What do you think is going to happen, Roger? Where is Melford taking us? Is my uncle the Lord Cardinal angry? I am no assassin.'

'Oh, I am sure there is nothing to worry about,' I lied. 'Melford is going to show us the marvels of the city, perhaps buy us a pastry and a pie from the cookshops. Maybe a visit to a bear garden or a drink in some snug tavern.'

My master smiled, the cloud lifting from his open face. I glanced away in desperation. (He was, in some ways, such an innocent!) We walked on past St Mildred's Church, Scalding Alley and the Poultry Compter. I pointed out the mansion near the Walbrook which Sir Thomas More had recently bought, and the houses of other court dignitaries. I had to chatter to still my nerves. We went through Cheapside where the rickety stalls of the poor traders housed loud-mouthed apprentices who offered us garish threads, fustian hats, trinkets, gee-gaws and other baubles.

My master, essentially a country boy, stopped at one stall but Melford spun on his heel and came back, his hand on his dagger. Benjamin, recognising the anger in his eyes, hastily dropped the object he was inspecting and followed on.

At last we came to Newgate Prison, the huge, ugly gaol built on the old city wall – a ghastly sight, made no pleasanter by the smells and smoke from the neighbouring butchers' shambles, whilst the gully in the centre of the street was choked with rubbish. The odour was so foul, Melford took a pomander from his wallet and held it to his nose. A great crowd had assembled, all eyes fixed on the ironbound gates of the prison. A trumpet sounded, its shrill blasts quieting the crowd before the gates opened to a great roar from the throng. Even the costermongers, wheeling their carts laden with baskets of bread, cooked meats and fruit, stopped plying their trade and looked up.

I saw a horse, three black plumes dancing between its ears. A tambour sounded, every beat silencing the clamour around us. The crowd shifted as Melford pushed forward. We saw the drummer walking before the horse which pulled a cart surrounded by guards, halberds half-lowered. The driver was clad in black leather from head to foot, his face covered by a lace-trimmed, orange mask with slits for the eyes and mouth. The cart itself was huge and decorated with the symbols of death. In it stood a man, his red hair shimmering in the sun. Beside him a priest muttered the prayers for the dying. Oh, I remembered my trial in Ipswich and knew the terror that was coming.

I peered between the slats of the cart and glimpsed the cheap pine-wood coffin. My master's face grew dullish pale. I thought he was going to faint or even run away but Melford was now standing between us, forcing us to follow the death cart. We did so, like mourners, as the procession slowly snaked down to the Elms at Smithfield, stopping only at the Angel for the usual bowl of ale for the condemned prisoner.

He looked as if he needed it; his face was one purple mask of bruises. He could hardly stand: there were angry welts across his bare shoulder and one arm hung awkwardly in its socket. At last, the cart trundled up to the great three-branched scaffold raised high on a platform next to a butcher's block in which a huge meat cleaver had been embedded. Another executioner, dressed in a dirty apron, hobbled on one lame leg across the platform and placed the noose round the prisoner's neck. The orange-masked driver whipped up the horse and pulled away, leaving the poor man to dance in the air. Suddenly white roses were thrown from the crowd and an urchin sprang on to the traitor's kicking legs. The boy pulled him down so quickly that, even from where I stood, I heard the click of his neck breaking. The urchin jumped down and scampered off.

Benjamin turned away and vomited, raising a catcall of abuse from some old crones who had gathered there to watch the fun: they were disappointed that the additional punishments of decapitation, castration and disembowelling were now no longer necessary. Melford, his own disappointment also apparent, turned and, with a snap of his fingers and a sharp curt order, indicated we should follow on.

'This was a warning, was it not?' Benjamin whispered, wiping his mouth on the back of his hand.

I praised him for his perspicacity. However, let me assure you, my master was no fool, just an innocent in the wicked ways of the world. I freely admit to my own terror. I felt faint with the heat, the crowd and the sight of that ghastly, twitching body.

We arrived at Westminster. Melford kept showing Wolsey's warrant to various officials until a steward, wearing the Cardinal's livery – three tasselled hats against a scarlet background – led us upstairs to the royal apartments. We encountered more guards and more questions until a great iron-studded door was thrown open and we entered an antechamber which reeked of wealth: great carved chairs and desks, finely wrought tables with spindly legs and tops cleverly covered with silver and topaz. My fingers itched to caress these valuables but Benjamin and I were ushered on into the Cardinal's presence. He was sitting in his throne-like chair, swathed in his scarlet robes. The light danced on the huge pectoral cross hanging from a chain round his neck and shimmered in the sparkling diamonds which covered his fingers.

Clerks scurried to and fro, bearing piles of documents. There was a smell of fresh wax and resin for the Lord Cardinal was sealing warrants which decreed life, wealth, freedom, prison, exile, as well as bloody death at Tower Hill, or Smithfield Common. Wolsey glanced up and stared at us, his small eyes hard as flint, and I knew what the psalmist meant when he described fear turning his bowels to water. On that occasion, mine nearly did and I quietly thanked God I was wearing thick, brown pantaloons for I did not wish to disgrace myself. The Cardinal picked up a silver bell from the desk beside him and rang it gently. A tocsin itself could not have wrought such an effect: all the clerks stopped their business and the room fell silent. Wolsey muttered a few words and his servants vanished as swiftly as peasants before the tax collectors.

After they had gone, the chamber remained silent except for the buzzing of angry flies and my Lord Cardinal's favourite greyhound busy crapping in a corner under a red and gold arras. Benjamin doffed his cap and swept his uncle a most courtly bow. I followed suit. The Cardinal studied us morosely as his greyhound went to gobble the remains of a meal from a silver dish.

'Benjamin, Benjamin, my dear nephew.'

Melford sidled up, whispered in the Cardinal's ear, grinned sourly at us and quietly left. As he did so, Doctor Agrippa and Sir Robert Catesby slipped into the room and sat on either side of the Cardinal. Once again the bell was tinkled: a servant entered bearing a jewel-encrusted tray. It bore five Venetian glasses, tall and thin-stemmed with bands of precious silver round the rims.

He placed these on a table next to Wolsey and left. The Cardinal himself solicitously served us the chilled wine from Alsace, giving us each a tray of sweetmeats. He returned to his chair, his perfumed, scarlet robes billowing around him as he ordered us to eat. I was only too pleased to do so, gulping noisily from the glass and gorging myself on the thin doucettes. Once I had finished, not caring whether Wolsey was staring at me, I also ate my master's for Benjamin had lost his appetite. (I might be a little timid but I do not like being threatened and I was determined to hide my terrors from the likes of Wolsey.) The Lord Cardinal sipped from his own glass, quietly humming the tune of some hymn.

'You saw Compton die?' he suddenly asked.

Benjamin nodded. 'It was not necessary, Uncle.'

'I will deem what is necessary and what is not,' the Cardinal snapped. 'Compton was a traitor.' Wolsey leaned back in his chair, wetting his lips. 'There is a link between his death and that of Selkirk.'

'What was his crime?' Benjamin asked.

'Compton, a member of Les Blancs Sangliers, bought a poisonous ointment from a sorcerer. He smeared the walls of a royal chamber with it, hoping to kill the King. He was trapped, questioned, but revealed nothing. Very much,' Wolsey angrily concluded, 'like your meetings with Selkirk. You discovered nothing and now we are faced with a conundrum: how can a man locked in a chamber be murdered, and we find not a trace of the potion or how the poisoner entered or left?' The Cardinal twisted in his chair. 'As Doctor Agrippa relates, the poisoner must have been there to leave the white rose. I believe, at Compton's execution, you saw some bastard throw such roses towards the scaffold?'

'Perhaps it was the same person,' I blurted out.

'Shut up, you idiot!' rasped Wolsey.

'Was Compton questioned by the King's torturers?' Benjamin asked.

'Of course.'

'And, dear Uncle, did you learn anything?' 'No, we did not.'

'Then, dearest Uncle, I think it is wrong to tax me with my lack of success with Selkirk. After all, I had no more than ten days.' Benjamin let his words sink in.

I stared at Doctor Agrippa, who was smiling to himself whilst Catesby looked moodily away. Benjamin deftly plucked the piece of parchment from beneath his doublet.

'Before you criticise us further, I did find something. Selkirk hid this in the wall of his prison cell.'

Wolsey almost snatched the document from Benjamin's hand. He did not even let Catesby or Agrippa look at it as he murmured the words aloud, and then peered closely at Benjamin.

Three less than twelve should it be,

Or the King, no prince engendered he.

The lamb did rest

In the falcon's nest,

The Lion cried,

Even though it died.

The truth Now Stands,

In the Sacred Hands,

Of the place which owns

Dionysius' bones.

'What does it mean?' he asked, handing the parchment to Doctor Agrippa, who read it and passed it to Catesby.

'God knows, Uncle,' Benjamin replied. 'But I believe the secrets Selkirk held are hidden in those lines.'

Wolsey picked up the silver bell and tinkled it. His master clerk came scurrying back into the room. The Cardinal took the parchment from Catesby and tossed it to his servant.

'Copy that, four or five times. Make sure there are no mistakes and have a cipher clerk study it carefully to see if it contains a coded message.'

The man bowed and scurried out. Wolsey glanced sideways at Doctor Agrippa and Catesby.

‘Gentlemen, do the words mean anything to you?'

Agrippa shook his head, his eyes on Benjamin, and I caught a gleam of appreciation as if the doctor had realised that my master and myself were not the fools he had thought. Catesby seemed dumbstruck and just shook his head. The Cardinal leaned forward, beaming in satisfaction at his beloved nephew.

'Master Benjamin, you have done well – but now there's more.'

Oh, Lord, I thought. I did not like being near the Great Ones of the land. I also wondered what would have happened if Benjamin had not discovered Selkirk's secret manuscript. The Cardinal edged forward on the seat of his chair like a conspirator.

'In a few days' time, on the Feast of St Luke, Queen Margaret will leave the Tower and journey north to Royston, a royal manor outside Leicester. She will stay there until she treats with envoys from Scotland who are coming south to discuss her return to Edinburgh. You will meet these emissaries on Queen Margaret's behalf and listen to what they offer.' Wolsey stared at his nephew. 'And there is more. Selkirk was killed by someone in the Tower. One or more of Queen Margaret's household may be members of Les Blancs Sangliers. You are to discover who these are. How and why they murdered Selkirk. And, above all, what are the mysteries concealed in Selkirk's doggerel poem?'

'Any member of the Queen's household could be a secret Yorkist,' Doctor Agrippa spoke up. 'Remember, even old Surrey who defeated James at Flodden once fought for Richard III. Indeed, they could have joined the Queen's household and gone to Scotland in order to plot fresh mischief.'

'Then let's entice them out!' Wolsey remarked. 'Announce that you have found Selkirk's poem, seize your opportunity to read it to the whole company, and see what happens.'

I remembered the strange look on Ruthven's face and agreed with Wolsey's advice, although I was more concerned for my own skin. Old Shallot's motto is, has, and always will be, 'Look after yourself and all will be well.'

'There's more,' Catesby intervened. 'One of the Lord Cardinal's most trusted agents in Scotland, a Master John Irvine, is coming south. He brings important information, so precious he will not even commit it to letter. Now, near Royston Manor is Coldstream Priory. I have instructed Irvine to meet you there on the Monday following the Feast of St Leo the Great. Irvine will reveal his secrets. You will tell no one what he says but report directly to His Eminence the Cardinal.'

Wolsey grasped Catesby by the arm as the door opened and the master clerk crept back into the room.

'Yes, man, what is it?'

The clerk shook his head.

'Your Grace, the poem is copied but the cipher clerks can trace no code. I also have a message: His Majesty the King expects you now.' The fellow glanced at us. 'And, of course, your guests.'

My heart sank. Take this as a rule from old Shallot – keep away from princes. To you they will always insist on being everything, but to them you are nothing but a pawn, a mere straw in the wind. To put it bluntly, I did not want to meet the King, his sister was bad enough! However, Wolsey rose, clapped his hands and Melford appeared at the doorway with two halberdiers. The Cardinal whispered instructions to remain to Agrippa and Catesby as the soldiers led my master and I out of the chamber. We went downstairs behind the Cardinal, across a shimmering black-and-white-chequered floor and, opening a door, entered the royal gardens. They were a feast of colour with their herbs, lilies and masses of wild flowers. In the far corner stood a small orchard of pear trees though pride of place was given to huge raised beds covered with red roses, their heads stretching up towards the sun.

At the far end of the garden was a broad, smooth, green lawn where a group of people dressed in gold, red, silver and pink silks put the flowers to shame. Cloths of lawn had been placed on the grass around a pure white marble fountain. On that clear autumn day, the sound of its tinkling water rose above the gentle hum of conversation and laughter. The area had been cordoned off with screens of cloth of gold nine feet high and in this small enclosure sat the King, Bluff Hal, with the gentlemen and ladies of his court.

Henry rose as Wolsey approached. He stood, his red-gold hair swept back, legs apart, hands on hips, a veritable Colossus of muscled flesh beneath his gorgeous robes. I had once seen the King from afar but now, close up, I could see the reason for the universal admiration of him: dressed completely in white, he gleamed in the sunlight. His hair, burnished by the sun, was grown long, falling in thick locks to his shoulders. Smooth-shaven, his face glowed like precious metal. Only the eyes chilled rather than awed me, set high in his face, narrow and slitted against the sunlight, they exuded a power and arrogance I had never seen before or since.

A golden boy was our Bluff Hal, before he went mad and fat as his great legs became ulcerated and the royal arse became sore with the haemorrhoids which were clustered there. In his later years, the great belly hung down like that of a sow. Henry grew so gross they had to build a special moving chair for him, and so irascible that only myself and his jester, Will Somers, would dare approach him. Of course, you know Henry VIII was murdered, don't you? Oh, yes, they killed him just before they put his swollen body in the coffin, pressing the lid down so urgently the corpse swelled and burst and dogs came to lick the rotten juices. But that was in the future. On that first occasion I met him, I just gawped – so much so that one of the ladies behind the King giggled and I realised that the escort, my master, and even the Lord Cardinal had gone down on their knees.

'You have brought us guests, Thomas?' The King's voice was low, tinged with exasperation.

'Yes, Your Majesty,' the Cardinal replied. 'I spoke of them earlier, you may remember?'

The King turned, clapped his hands and shouted something in French to his companions. The men bowed, the ladies curtseyed and swept out of the garden in a rustle of silk and gusts of fragrant perfume. I recognised Henry's Queen, Catherine of Aragon, dumpy and fat, dressed in dark blue with a necklace of gold carved in the form of Spanish pomegranates around her neck. Her face was sallow though the dark eyes were kind and soft. Sir Thomas More was there, whose house I had shown to my master. A learned scholar Thomas, with his sardonic face and clever eyes. He never had any illusions about the King.

'Do you know, Shallot,' he once remarked, 'if my head could win him a town in France, then it would go!'

In a way poor Tom was right; his head went, not because of a castle but a courtesan – Anne Boleyn.

Once they had all gone, Wolsey rose to his feet with the grace of a dancer. I would have followed but my master gripped my arm and shook his head. I looked up. The pleasaunce was now deserted except for one lady dressed in pink, her blonde hair covered against the sun's heat by a fine veil of white lawn. She was sitting on a small stool sipping rather fast from a huge goblet of wine. Queen Margaret had left the Tower.

'Come, Thomas, come!' the King's voice was brisk. 'Tell your guest to approach. We can't spend all day on this matter.'

Wolsey snapped his fingers. Benjamin rose, went to kneel at the King's feet and kissed his hand. The King raised him from his knees, murmuring a few words of greeting. I went forward, eyes on the ground, and extended my hand to take the King's – but there was nothing there. I glanced up. The King, his arm linked through Wolsey's, was returning to the pleasaunce.

Benjamin walked slowly behind, gesturing with his head for me to follow. I did, trotting like a dog, quietly hiding my own mortification. Apparently, I had been good enough to die for the King in one of his wars but not worthy enough to kiss his hand. In the pleasaunce Wolsey heaved himself on to a chair beside the King. I peered sideways at Queen Margaret. The King was terrifying but that woman would frighten a panther. She was made all the more repellent by her sly cast of features and a grimace which she must have thought was a smile.

'My Lord Cardinal has given you his instructions?' barked the King to my master.

Benjamin nodded. 'Yes, Your Majesty.'

'You are going to carry them out?'

'With all my strength.'

Oh, Lord, I could have clapped my hands over my master's mouth. There he was, a lamb amongst the wolves, openly committing himself (and more importantly, me) to a task which might take us along the same path Selkirk and Compton had travelled. The King nodded and stared down at the sparkling rings of his fingers as if bored by the whole proceedings. I peered closer, glancing sharply at the Cardinal: both he and the King looked solemn but it was like some comedy masque in which Benjamin and I were the jesters. They were laughing at us, though I am not sure if Queen Margaret was party to the joke.

At last the King dismissed us and we went back into the palace where Wolsey suddenly pulled us into an alcove, gesturing with his hand for Melford to walk ahead. The Cardinal was so close I could see the beads of sweat on his fat brow as well as smell the cloying perfume from his silken robes.

'Trust no one,' he whispered. 'Not even Doctor Agrippa. You must go north but, mark my words, your mission will be accompanied by intrigue, mystery, and the most brutal murder.'

[Now, resting against my silken bolsters and looking back down the tunnel of years, I know that old bastard of a Cardinal was right. The devil himself would strike camp and follow us north.]

As soon as we were clear of Westminster Palace, we headed for the Rose tavern like frightened rabbits to the nearest hole. Our meeting with the King, Wolsey's talk of plots, and his final whispered warning had done little for my indigestion and the sight of my master's white, agitated face afforded me little comfort. Once we were hidden in the dark coolness of the tavern, our noses deep in cups of sack, we relaxed and felt better. Master Daunbey probably drew strength from my calm, devil-may-care attitude.

'What does it all mean, Roger? Poison, secret messages, mysterious meetings and journeys to the wild north?' He looked at the piece of parchment Wolsey had given him, containing a copy of Selkirk's doggerel verse.

'What's hidden in this thrice-damned poem?' he asked. 'Dionysius is Greek. And how can a lamb rest in the falcon's nest? Or a dead lion cry? And what's this business about three less than twelve?'

I could give few answers except a noisy belch and a shout for more sack. The drink soothed Benjamin. He became a little maudlin and began mumbling about a woman called Johanna. I asked him who she was but he shook his head and, in a few minutes, fell into an uneasy sleep. I let him rest for I had become more interested in the coy glances of a serving wench. She showed me more than a smile when I slipped her some of Benjamin's coins and we retired into a chamber at the top of the house. I forget her name. She's probably now just dust and a golden memory but she had lovely eyes, long legs and the biggest breasts in London.

[Bigger than Fat Margot's? my chaplain asks. Oh, yes, like ripe melons. I must give the chaplain a rap on the knuckles; he's far too interested in the lusts of the flesh.]

Anyway, this golden girl took my money but I think she liked me and soon it was hot mouth against warm flesh in the riotous tumble of the bed. When I awoke she was gone; so were more of my coins. I dressed and went downstairs. Benjamin was still sleeping in the taproom so I roused him. He woke cool and calm.

'Master,' I said (as if I had been there all afternoon), 'the day draws on, we must go back to the Tower.'

Benjamin rubbed his eyes. 'Soon we will be gone from London. I must see Johanna.'

'Who is she?' I complained. 'For heaven's sake, Master, I have sat here keeping you company, I am tired and I want my bed.'

Benjamin pressed my arm. 'Roger, you must come.'

Well, what could I do? At heart I am a generous soul so I followed him out to King's Steps and we took a barge up the Thames. I couldn't make any sense out of him ' so I sat back and left Benjamin to his own thoughts whilst studying the fat carracks of Venice, the big-bellied ships of the Hanse and the gorgeously decorated barges of the noblemen as they skimmed like kingfishers across the darkened Thames down to Westminster or the palace at Greenwich. On the far bank, as the sun set, two river pirates had been hanged, their bodies still jerking at the end of the scaffold rope. Later they would be lowered into the Thames and tied to the wharf for three days and three nights as a warning to other predators on the river. We turned a bend and Benjamin leaned forward, whispering instructions to the oarsman. The skiff pulled in and I stared up at the beautiful white brick convent of the Nuns of Syon.

'Johanna's a nun?' I whispered.

Benjamin shook his head. We disembarked and walked up the gravelled path to the iron-studded convent gate. My master pulled the bell and a postern door opened. Again Benjamin whispered, the white-veiled nun smiled and beckoned us forward. We were led round a flower-filled cloister garth, down white-washed passages into a room furnished with nothing except a bench, a few stools and a large black wooden cross. The nun brought us two cups of watered wine and slipped out, closing the door behind her. Naturally, I was full of questions but Benjamin's face had become cold and impassive, drained of both colour and emotion. Ten, fifteen minutes passed before the door opened and an old nun walked in, leading a girl of no more than nineteen or twenty summers. She had fiery red hair under the dark cowl of her cloak and her face was truly beautiful – marble white with rosebud lips – but her eyes, though a sea-washed blue, were empty and vacant. She stumbled as if finding it difficult to walk and, when Benjamin rose to embrace her, just shook her head and gave him a blank smile.

My master led her over to one of the benches where they sat together, Benjamin caressing her, pulling her close to him, crooning like a doting parent would over a favourite child. The old nun just stood and watched whilst I listened to him mutter sweet endearments but the girl hardly moved, allowing herself to be rocked gently backwards and forwards. I stared but looked away when I saw the tears streaming down my master's face and felt the sheer sorrow of his soul. After a while the nun went across and took Johanna gently out of Benjamin's arms. She and my master whispered for a while, the door was opened and Benjamin and I were left alone.

We did not talk until we were through the postern gate of the Tower and alone in our chamber. By then Benjamin had composed himself.

'Who was she, Master?'

'Johanna Beresford,' he murmured.

The name stirred my own memories. 'There were Beresfords in Ipswich,' I replied, 'an alderman by the same name.'

'Yes, that's correct.'

Suddenly I remembered the rumours I had heard about Benjamin: vague gossip about him being enamoured of an alderman's daughter.

'What happened?'

Benjamin rubbed his face in his hands. 'Some years ago,' he began, 'just after I was appointed as Clerk to the Justices in Ipswich, I fell deeply in love with Johanna Beresford.' He smiled wanly. 'She was rather spoilt, being the only daughter of a wealthy, elderly couple. Nevertheless, I made her laugh and I think she had some affection for me.' He licked his lips and looked around. 'All went well, at least at first. I was received into her father's house where I pressed my suit.' He fell silent.

'What happened then?' I prompted.

'The Assizes came to town, the great judges from Westminster doing their circuit of Suffolk. The captain of the guard was a young nobleman, one of the Cavendishes of Devon.' Benjamin bit his lip. 'To cut a dreadful story short, Johanna became besotted with this young nobleman. Of course, I protested but she was infatuated. Now, I might have accepted that: Johanna was of an honourable family and would have made a dutiful wife, but Cavendish just trifled with her, seduced and then abandoned her. Johanna was distraught with grief. She went down to London but he laughed at her, offering to provide her with comfortable lodgings. He treated her no better than a whore.' Benjamin looked at me, no longer the gentle soul I knew. The skin across his pallid face had drawn tight, his eyes seemed larger, wilder. 'Johanna went mad!' he continued. 'Her parents, distraught, tried to remonstrate with Cavendish but the insults they received only hastened their own demise. Before their death they put her in the caring hands of the Nuns of Syon and left their money in trust to the Order. Alderman Beresford also made me swear that for as long as I lived I would take care of Johanna.' He smiled. 'No duty, Roger, but a sacred trust: Johanna is insane, driven mad by love, witless because of desire. So now you understand.'

I did. I now knew why Benjamin would occasionally hasten down to London on some mysterious errand. Why he was so shy in the company of women. Why he always bore that terrible aura of sadness, and why he'd been so skilled in putting Selkirk at his ease.

'What happened?' I asked. 'To whom?' 'To Cavendish?'

Benjamin rubbed his hands together.

'Well,' he coughed, 'I killed him!'

Now, the Lord be my witness, I went cold with fright. Here was my gentle master, who became sad when a dray horse was beaten, calmly announcing he had killed a young nobleman! Benjamin glanced sideways at me.

'No,' he said tartly, 'not what you think, Roger. No poison-laced wine or arrow in the back. I might not carry a sword but I was taught fencing by a Spaniard who had served in Italy, then fled to England when the Inquisition took an interest in him. Anyway, I sought out Cavendish in a London tavern. I bit my thumb at him, slapped him in the face and asked if he was as brave with Ipswich men as he was with Ipswich women. One grey morning, on thirty yards of dew-drenched grass near Lincoln's Inn Fields, we met with sword and dagger. I could say I meant to wound him but that would be a he.' He shrugged. 'I killed him clean in ten minutes. There's a law against duelling but the Cavendishes saw it as a matter of honour and accepted that as a gentleman I had no choice but to issue the challenge. My uncle the Lord Cardinal obtained a pardon from the King and the matter was hushed up.' He sighed. 'Now, Johanna is mad and hidden away in Syon, Cavendish is dead, my heart is broken and I owe my life to the Lord Cardinal.' He got up and unclasped his cloak. 'Have you ever, Roger,' he said, talking over his shoulder, 'wondered why I saved you from the hangman's noose in Ipswich?'.

To be truthful I had not, accepting Benjamin as a simple, honest, kindly fellow. Now, in that dark chamber in the Tower, I realised that old Shallot had been wrong and fought to hide the cold prickling fear in my heart.

Benjamin slung his cloak down on the bed.

'Well, Roger?'

'Yes and no,' I stuttered.

He knelt down beside me. I tensed, seeing the small knife secreted in his hand. His eyes were still wild in his pale, haggard face.

'I saved you, Roger, because I liked you, and because I owe you a debt.' He smiled strangely. 'Remember that Great Beast of a school master? But,' he seized my wrist in a grip like a steel manacle, 'I want you to swear now, before me and before God, that if anything happens to me, you will always take care of Johanna!' He pulled back the sleeve of his jerkin and nicked his wrist with the knife until a thin, rich, red line of blood appeared; then he took my wrist, the edge of the knife skimming it like a razor. I did not look down but kept my eyes fastened on his. One flicker, one change of expression, and I would have drawn my own dagger but Benjamin harmlessly forced his cut on mine so our blood mingled together, trickling down, staining our arms and the starched whiteness of our shirts.

'Swear, Roger!' he exclaimed. 'Swear by God, by your mother's grave, by the blood now mingling, you will always take care of Johanna!'

'I swear!' I whispered.

He nodded, rose, and tossing the knife on the floor, lay down on his bed and rolled himself up in his cloak.

I waited while the blood on my cut wrist dried, staring across at Benjamin.

Now, let old Shallot teach you a lesson – never presume you know anyone! Benjamin was not the man I thought he was. In truth he was many people: the kindly lawyer, the innocent student, the boon companion… but there was a deeper, darker, even sinister side. He was a man who strove to conceal extravagant passions behind a childlike exterior. Outside the Tower, a cold wind from the river cried and moaned like a lost soul, seeking Heaven. I shivered and drew my cloak around me. Benjamin had killed a man! Could he kill again? I wondered. Had his questioning of Selkirk reminded him of Johanna and stirred the demon festering in his soul?

After all, my master had been the last man to speak to the prisoner. My mind flitted like a bat around the dark reaches of the mystery surrounding us. Why had the Scotsman died? Would Benjamin do anything for his uncle? Did that include murder? Above all, was I safe?

[I am sorry, I must stop dictating my story; my chaplain, the clerk, is jumping around on his little stool.

'Tell us who killed Selkirk!' he exclaims. 'What were the mysteries of his poem? Why don't you just tell the truth and leave it at that?'

I tell the little fart to sit down. I am a teller of tales and will let my story unfold like a piece of tapestry. After all, why not? Every Sunday my chaplain goes into the pulpit and bores me to sleep with a sermon which lasts for hours about lust and lechery. He wouldn't dream of getting up and bawling out, 'Stop fornicating, you bastards!' and then sitting down, oh, no, and my tale is more interesting than any sermon. Moreover, there's more to come: murder on the highway, terror in the streets of Paris, death by stealth, subtle trickery and evil which would make old Herod himself look an innocent.

Do you know, years later I told Master Shakespeare about Johanna. He was much impressed by the story and promised he would include it in one of his plays about a Danish prince who forsakes his love and sends her mad. I thought he would make a passing reference to me, at least out of gratitude! But oh, dear, no. A sign of the times… the laxity in morals! The collapse of truth! I drink from my goblet and turn my face to the wall. In truth, you can trust no one.]