The White Rose (11 page)

'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.]

Chapter 4

The days following our visit to Johanna were full of frenetic busyness: Benjamin had to pack our belongings, I had to sell a cup (I'd stolen this from Wolsey) and draw what money I had deposited with the goldsmiths. On 18 October, the Feast of St Luke, we assembled under the looming battlements of the Tower. Servants, porters, farriers and fletchers bustled about. Grooms, scullions and carters carried our baggage and loaded it on to the great wagon: hangings, feathered beds, yards of damask and costly cloth, towels and napkins, were piled into chests. The furnishings of Queen Margaret's chapel -candelabra, heavy missal books with their golden covers and carved stands, cushioned prayer stools - not to mention the pots and pitchers from the kitchen, were piled in great heaps on the cobbled yard. Of course, I avoided so much work, going out to the bloody square on Tower Hill to gawk at the gore-drenched platform where the Great Ones of the land had their heads cut off.

At last we were ready. We left the Tower by a postern gate and went along Hog Street, turning right to hear Mass at St Mary Grace's church. The cavalcade stopped and orders were issued for us to rest in the fields around the church whilst Queen Margaret and her principal attendants went inside. I was all agog with curiosity for I had glimpsed a cart, covered by a black damask cloth, arriving outside the main door of the church. It was protected by yeomen of the guard wearing the royal red and gold livery. The cloth was pulled back and a large casket was taken into the church. Catesby ordered us to follow it.

I wondered what it was as we trailed up the dark nave behind Agrippa, Melford, and others of the Queen's party. The casket was placed on trestles before the high altar. Queen Margaret stood at the head, the rest of us on either side. I craned forward. Queen Margaret, white-faced and with dark-ringed eyes, nodded slightly and Catesby prised loose the lid to reveal white, gauze cloths which gave off a sweet fragrant perfume. These were removed and - oh, sweet Lord, I nearly fainted! The corpse of a man lay there: red-haired, red-bearded, face long and marble-white. The body was clothed in a purple gown and a silver pectoral cross winked in the flickering candle light. The man looked to be asleep though his eyelids were only half-closed. I saw small wounds, red gashes, high on the cheek bones. Immediately the group knelt.

'Who is it?' I whispered.

'Her husband,' Benjamin murmured. 'The late James IV of Scotland, killed at Flodden!'

I stared at the skull-like face, the hollowed cheek bones, the red hair now combed smoothly back from the forehead. I later learnt that the corpse had been badly mauled in battle, the face disfigured by a crashing axe blow. The embalmers had used all their skills to repair the body. Queen Margaret muttered something to Catesby.

'Of your mercy,' Sir Robert intoned, 'pray for the soul of our late King James IV and take your leave. Her Grace wishes to be alone.'

We all filed out of the church, leaving Queen Margaret with her shadows whilst we waited in the warm autumn sunshine.

'Master Benjamin,' I muttered, 'the King's corpse has been above ground for four years.'

'The English generals,' he replied, 'had the body dressed and embalmed after Flodden and sent it south for our King to view.' He smiled and looked away. 'You know our good Henry - he fears neither the living nor the dead. He kept the corpse shut away in a special chamber at Sheen Palace.'

'And the Queen will take it back?'

'No, no!' Ruthven interrupted, sidling up behind us. 'King Henry has decreed that it stays here until she is restored to Scotland.'

I turned and looked at the man's tear-stained face.

'You loved King James?'

'He had his failings, but he was a great prince. Noble-hearted and generous to a fault.' Ruthven looked up at the birds wheeling and twisting against the blue sky. 'Such a noble prince,' he whispered, 'deserved a better end than that.'

Queen Margaret came out of the church, a veil covering her grief-stricken face. Benjamin tugged Ruthven by the sleeve, indicating he wished to talk to him. We walked further away from the group.

'What was your master like?' Benjamin indicated with his head towards the eerie church. 'The late James IV? I mean, as a man?'

'A strange person,' Ruthven replied, 'tinged with the new learning from Italy. King James was interested in medicine and was absorbed in all aspects of the study of physic and the human body.' He rubbed his eyes with the back of his hand. 'Do you know, he even founded a chair of medicine at one of the universities?' Ruthven glanced away, now lost in the past. 'The King's curiosity and hunger for knowledge led him down many strange paths. On one occasion he hired a Satanist, a monk who dabbled in the Black Arts.' Ruthven looked at the party clustered round the church door. 'In fact, Doctor Agrippa reminds me of him, but that was years ago.' Ruthven looked at us sharply. 'Do you know,' he whispered, 'Carey believes his grandfather met Doctor Agrippa in Antioch. But surely it's not possible for a man to live so long?' He sighed. 'Anyway, this Satanist promised he could make things fly. Whether he did or not I don't know, but James loved the good as well as the mysterious things of life - fine wine, beautiful women. He had bastards by at least two of his mistresses, Marion Boyd and Margaret Drummond. He would have lived a long and full life had it not been for Flodden.' Ruthven ground his teeth together. 'He should have heeded the warnings.' 'What warnings?'

'A few days before he joined his army, King James was at prayer in the royal chapel at Linlithgow. A ghostly figure appeared, dressed in flowing robes of blue and white. The spectre carried a great staff and, with his high forehead and blond hair, bore an uncanny resemblance to a painting of St John. In loud, sepulchral tones, this vision warned James to give up war and consorting with wanton women. One of the King's companions tried to seize the apparition but it vanished.' Ruthven gnawed at his lip. 'A few days later the army assembled outside Edinburgh and a ghostly voice was heard shouting at midnight. It seemed to come from the Market Cross. This voice called on James and all his commanders to appear before Pluto, God of the Underworld, within thirty days.' Ruthven shrugged. 'The prophecy was fulfilled. Within a month James and most of his commanders were dead, killed at Flodden.' The steward turned and spat on the ground. 'So, Master Daunbey, you know more about my master. Any further questions?'

'Yes,' I interrupted, 'when my master told you about Selkirk's mutterings, you seemed alarmed, even disturbed.'

Ruthven gazed gloomily at me. Do you know, I really thought he was going to tell me something, but his protuberant eyes refused to meet mine.

'I have said enough,' he muttered as he saw Moodie approach.

'The Queen mourns for her husband,' the chaplain squeaked.

'Does she?' Ruthven quipped. 'How can she?' 'What do you mean?' Benjamin turned as quick as a top, his eyes sharp and questioning. 'What do you mean, Ruthven?'

'I have heard stories, Master Daunbey.' Ruthven nodded towards the church. 'They say King James was not killed at Flodden and that corpse belongs to someone who merely looks like him.'

'Is that possible?' I asked.

Ruthven pursed his lips.

'It's possible,' he whispered. 'First, we always see what we expect to see. Secondly, the royal corpse was mangled; it had been in the hands of embalmers and above ground for four years. Thirdly, at Flodden James dressed at least sixteen of his knights in royal armour and coat of arms. God knows for what reason - he didn't lack courage. And, finally, there were several knights of James's court who looked like him.' He glanced up and saw Agrippa approaching. 'That is all,' he concluded.

I watched him walk away. Benjamin, his arms folded, seemed lost in his own thoughts. He waited until the smiling doctor had passed by.