'Your Grace,' Benjamin replied coolly, 'I thank you for that but I must agree with Doctor Agrippa - there are matters still unresolved.'
'Such as?'
'Selkirk's verse and his death. Ruthven's murder, and the violent destruction of John Irvine, the Cardinal's special envoy to Scotland.'
'And how,' she asked sweetly, 'can these matters be resolved?'
Benjamin's gaze held hers.
'I shall go to Scotland alone,' he quietly announced, 'whilst Shallot will travel to Paris. In Scotland I may find some answers. In France Shallot may find the truth behind Selkirk's obtuse warnings.' He smiled. 'Your Grace cannot object? We may be in your household but we work under the direct orders of the Lord Cardinal.'
Of course, the royal bitch agreed. Catesby just smirked. Agrippa, although he objected at first, reluctantly consented to write out the warrants and disburse the necessary silver for our journeys.
The rest of Queen Margaret's household ignored us, taken up with preparations for their own journey back to London. The Careys glared at me, Scawsby sneered and enquired sarcastically after my health whilst Melford, whenever his gaze caught mine, let his hand fall to the dagger at his belt. Moodie was different. He was withdrawn and seemed rather frightened. Just before Benjamin and I left, he searched me out, a small package in his hand.
'You go to Paris?' he asked.
I nodded.
'To Le Coq d'Or tavern?' 'Yes,' I replied. 'Why?'
Moodie shamefacedly extended the package he held. 'In a street nearby,' he mumbled, 'at the Sign of the Pestle in the Rue des Moines, would you leave this? It's for . . .' He looked away, embarrassed. 'It's for a Madame Eglantine who calls there. I knew her once,' he stuttered, 'it's a gift.'
I looked at the little priest and grinned at Benjamin. 'Of course,' I replied. 'Even priests have friends, be they male or female.'
[Now there goes my clerk again, protesting as if he was as chaste as the driven snow. He squirms his little bum on the stool. 'I suppose Moodie's going to be the murderer!' he yelps: I tell the little bastard to shut up. There are more terrors to come, more mysteries and secrets than he could ever know. Something which, if I lived to be two hundred years old then went and announced it at St Paul's Cross, would rock the very throne of England and scandalise the courts of Europe! Good, that's shut the little bastard up. Now I can get back to my story.]
Benjamin and I left Royston in the last week of November, when the days grew dark early and the sun disappeared a few hours after noon. The mist had lifted from a countryside now hard and black under an iron frost. We reached the crossroads. I looked mournfully at Benjamin.
'We part here, Master?'
He looked around as if to make sure Agrippa or any other spy was not lurking in the hedgerow, and shook his head in contradiction.
My heart quickened. 'So I'm not off to France?'
'In due course, Roger, but surely you realise where we must go first?'
'Master, I am in no mood for riddles. I am cold and getting more frightened by the hour. I wish to God this business was done and we were back in Ipswich!'
Benjamin patted me on the shoulder. 'Listen, Roger,' he explained, 'at Sheen Palace lies the corpse of James IV of Scotland. Now, we saw Queen Margaret mourning her husband; we have Selkirk's riddle about a Lion that cried even though it died; Oswald the moss trooper's tale about more than one royal corpse being discovered at Flodden . . .' Benjamin shook his head. 'I know he didn't actually
say
that but it was implicit in his words. Above all, we have his strange reference to Kelso. Roger, I believe all these mysteries are rooted in King James's death at Flodden. Accordingly, we must examine the corpse at Sheen.'
'Hell's teeth!' I exclaimed. 'We just can't march up to Sheen Palace and demand to see a royal corpse!'
Benjamin pulled Wolsey's warrants out of his wallet. 'Oh, yes, we can, Roger. These warrants allow us to go wherever we wish. They order every servant of the Crown, on their loyalty to the King, to give us aid and assistance.'
'Ah, well, Master,' I smiled, 'if you put it like that, of course, it makes sense!'
[Now there's my little clerk sniggering away just because I was frightened. He forgets I can lean forward in this great chair and give him a good whack across the shoulders. On second thoughts, I won't. He's right. I
was
terrified and my fear was born of shadowy terrors yet to come.]
We struck south-west for the old Roman Road which runs from Newark to London. Benjamin had another reason for our sudden change of plan.
'You see, Roger,' he commented, 'you were expected to take the road to Dover whilst I was bound for Scotland. If anyone is preparing an ambush or some stealthy assassin lies lurking in a tavern, their wait will be both long and fruitless.'
Poor Benjamin, he could be so innocent. He forgot we had to travel back!
Chapter 8
Our journey was rather eerie - I mean, travelling south to meet a dead man - nor was it a comfortable one. The weather was deathly cold, the frost nipping at every part of our exposed flesh. I was soon made to feel even more uncomfortable. We stopped at a tavern and, before we ate our evening meal, Benjamin took me up to our flea-infested chamber.
'Take off your doublet and shirt, Roger.'
I stared aghast.
'Don't worry, Roger, I have no designs on your lithe, young body. I merely want you to perform an experiment. Trust me.' He delved into a saddlebag and drew out a long, black chain. 'Don't ask me where I got this from.' He grinned. 'Actually, I found it at Royston. It's a priest's penitential chain to be worn around the waist against the skin. I would like you to wear it for a while.'
'Why me?' I yelled.
'You
wear the bloody thing!'
Benjamin opened his cloak. 'I'm far too thin and angular. You're the proper build. Wear it as comfortably as possible.'
I put the Godforsaken thing on. Strange, at first I didn't notice any difference but that the chain was cold and slipped against my stomach. I only remembered it when I leaned forward or when I tried to sleep at night. (Do remember, these chains were not really a penance, more a sharp rebuke to the pleasure-loving flesh and a curt reminder of vows taken.)
'You cannot take it off, Roger,' my master ordered.
'I insist on that. You must wear it as James IV of Scotland did.'
'Why did he?' I asked.
Benjamin explained: 'The King's father was murdered when James was but a boy. However, the King always believed he was partly responsible for his father's death. The chain was a sharp reminder of his guilt.'
'According to Oswald, the corpse at Flodden had no chain about it. So why this mummery and play-acting?'
'James could have taken it off,' Benjamin answered. 'Either at the request of some lady because it disturbed their bouncing on the royal bed. Or, more probably, because he went into battle in full armour. That would fit snugly round his body and make the chain nigh on impossible to wear. Moreover, if James received any blow, it would drive the chain deep into the flesh and inflict a mortal wound.'
I accepted Benjamin's words but, when I questioned him on why I should wear it, he just smiled, waved a bony hand and told me to be patient. We reached London two days later. I advised my master it would be dangerous to go through the city as the Cardinal's spies were everywhere and they might question our journey to Sheen. Instead, I led him in by secret ways, going round the Hospital of St Katherine, past the Tower, to Custom House on the corner of Thames Street near the Woolquay. Oh, I felt tempted to wander, to spend one day, one night in my old haunts or slip across the river to the stews and brothels of Southwark but Benjamin insisted I follow my own advice. We kept our faces deep in our cowls, gave false names at taverns and refused to talk or discuss any matter while we were within a bow shot of anyone else. We went along the river bank: two smugglers were being hanged near Billingsgate and this had attracted a large crowd to watch their last dance. We slipped by these and hired a wherry from Botolph's Wharf.
Despite the cold, I remember, it was a clear, sunny day. I kept silent, sitting back in the wherry to gaze forlornly across at the spires, towers and turrets of the city. We shot under London Bridge. I glimpsed the spiked heads of decapitated traitors, their shredded necks, gaping mouths and straggly hair. All were eyeless for the crows and ravens pluck the succulent pieces first. Once under the bridge the boatmen pulled out to mid-stream. They paused a while to let a fleet of barges, packed with city dignitaries, sweep by as stately as swans. Oh, the splendour of the rich! Minstrels played; the music wafted sweetly across the water from poops and sterns hidden under a dazzle of bright banners and flags. Silver bells tinkled and gold-embossed oars flashed rhythmically up and down. The splendour and pomp seemed to mock our secretive, eerie journey.
We passed Queenshithe, St Paul's Wharf, White Friars and the Temple. Benjamin nudged me as Westminster Abbey came into view. My master knew about my past: the abbey, you see, before fat Henry intervened, had a sanctuary where fugitives from the law sheltered from bailiffs and sheriffs' men. These outlaws pitched their tents in the abbey precincts, fought over stolen goods and, like Jack Hogg and I, stole out at night to rob and pillage the houses of the rich. The great bells of the abbey were booming and I idly wondered what would have happened to my life if Jack Hogg and I had not been taken. (Now let that be a lesson to you! Never protest at fortune: as one door closes, another opens. All you've got to do is make sure there's no trap beyond it.)
At last we reached the Palace of Sheen. The wherry pulled in and we disembarked at the great garden gate. The palace stands far back from the river, its only access being through fields and orchards which protect it against the vagaries of the Thames. Now Benjamin and I were most subtle. Before our journey we had discussed whether the court and its hangers-on would be there. We decided they would not. In autumn, Bluff Hal preferred Windsor and the hunting lodges in the great forest there. We were pleased to find the palace deserted (or so we thought) except for the usual steward and bailiffs who stayed throughout the year to clean the rooms, wash the hangings and sweep out the dirt once the court moved on. Benjamin acted with all the authority he could muster: displaying Wolsey's warrants and issuing orders in such harsh tones that everyone we met was soon running about as if the great Cardinal himself had arrived. We met the steward in his small chamber off the buttery near the Great Hall, a nervous, beanpole of a man with greasy, grey hair and a hare-lip which fascinated me.
'Master,' he whined, 'how can I help you?'
'You can keep secret counsel?' Benjamin asked sharply.
The fellow nodded, round-eyed. 'Of course, Master. My lips are sealed.' He clenched his mouth shut, making his face even more grotesque.
'You are to tell no one of our arrival here. We wish to see the corpse of the late James IV of Scotland.'
The fellow's mouth opened slackly and fear flared in his eyes. He licked his lips.
'That is forbidden,' he whispered.
'I am here on the Lord Cardinal's express orders,' Benjamin repeated. 'You have seen the warrants. Shall I go and tell my uncle you ignored them?'
The fellow's resistance collapsed like a house of cards; bowing and mumbling apologies, he led us out of the main palace building, across a deserted cobbled yard to a small tower built in the far wall of the palace. Two sentries armed with sword and halberd stood on guard. Once again there was discussion but Benjamin had his way. The door was unlocked, we climbed a flight of cold, damp, mildewed steps, another door opened and we stepped into an oval-shaped chamber. It was stripped of all decoration: no furniture, no rushes, no hangings on the wall. The shutters on the windows were firmly closed and padlocked. A perfect mausoleum for the desolate coffin which lay on trestles in the centre of the room.
'Light the torches,' Benjamin ordered. 'After that, sir, you will withdraw.'
The steward was about to protest but my master's gimlet stare forced him to obey. A tinder was struck and the cressets pushed into niches in the wall flared into life. Now, I openly confess, I was terrified. Oh, I have seen corpses enough. Old Shallot's a brawling man: a born street fighter and a soldier who has seen more battles than many of you have had hot dinners. Yet that chamber chilled me. I felt as if we were in the presence of a ghoul, the living dead. The steward closed the door behind him and our shadows danced against the wall as we stood transfixed looking at the coffin lid, half-expecting it to be pushed aside and the corpse to rise and step out. Benjamin must have caught my mood though of course, as always, he drew strength from my presence.