by Paul Doherty
'Signor Daunbey, why are you here? Do you bring messages?'
The Queen looked at me and glimpsed the iron chain in my hand.
'You have been to see the corpse?' she asked.
'Yes, Your Grace, on my uncle's orders.'
Catherine nodded. 'I was Regent, you know,' she half-whispered. 'It was I who sent old Surrey north to crush James at Flodden.'
'Your Grace,' I blurted out, 'we have seen the corpse. Would Your Grace be kind enough to answer certain questions?'
Benjamin looked at me in surprise but, I'll be honest, I was tired of this subterfuge and Catherine seemed the friendliest person we had met since this horrible business had begun. The queen smiled and tweaked me gently by the cheek.
'I have heard of you, Shallot,' she murmured. 'The Lord Cardinal has described your escapades until the tears have soaked his cheeks.'
'I am glad to be of service.' I answered sarcastically.
[Believe me, old Wolsey had occasion to cry about me before he shuffled off his mortal coil.]
Catherine waved us into the hall and we sat in the window seat. Benjamin stammered out an apologetic request – how he would appreciate it if no one else was told about our visit. Catherine smiled warmly. Little Mary sat beside her like a doll, her thumb stuck solemnly in her mouth.
'Your questions, Signor Shallot?'
'Your Grace, how was the corpse when it was brought south?'
'A bloody mess,' she replied. 'One side of the face was badly mauled. The embalmers worked skilfully, even as they brought it here. The royal tabard was soaked in blood. I sent it to Hen- the King in France as a token of our great victory.' She peered through the mullioned glass window. 'I should not have done that,' she whispered.
'Your Grace,' I asked, 'are you sure it was the corpse of the King of Scotland?'
Catherine shrugged. 'I had never met James alive, so how could I recognise him in death? He wore a ring on his right hand; the tabard and armour were royal.' She made a face. 'The corpse was shaved but the beard and moustache were red. Surrey said it was James, though I have heard otherwise!'
'But no chain?' I persisted.
'Ah, the chain,' she murmured. 'No, there was no chain. But I tell you this – even if the corpse is not James's, Surrey himself assured me that no royal personage could escape from that battle. However, James might have fought in plain armour. It is a common practice.' She smiled at us. I noticed how her teeth were still white, not rotting black like those of the courtiers who constantly stuffed sweets and comfits into their mouth. 'What is your interest in the corpse?' she asked. 'Though perhaps you would be wise not to answer that!'
Benjamin smiled and we rose. We bowed and were about to leave when the Queen suddenly murmured, 'Signor Daunbey, Signor Shallot.' Now she looked solemn-faced. I caught a glimpse of the dark beauty which had once captivated Henry. 'Be most careful,' she warned. 'And be assured, my husband the King has a close interest in these matters.'
We took Catherine's warnings to heart. I dropped the chain in the moat and we fled like the wind from Sheen. It was late afternoon by the time the wherry brought us back to Botolph's Wharf. Benjamin and I had hardly exchanged a word, even when the boat glided by Syon Convent.
We collected our horses from the tavern and decided to skirt the city. We crossed Holywell Road, Deep Ditch, and travelled as fast as we could around Charterhouse and Clerkenwell, keeping well clear of the city before taking the road south to New Cross. We stayed at a splendid hostel there. Of course, I drank deeply from a mixture of relief at the Queen's open support as well as the need to forget the horrors of that grisly chamber. After the evening meal (sweet salmon cooked in white wine), Benjamin and I stayed up long after the taproom emptied. In the main our conversation was about the Queen, and the King's penchant for ever younger mistresses. At last Benjamin stared round the deserted room.
'What do you think, Roger? Did we see the corpse of James IV of Scotland?' 'I don't know,' I replied.
He leaned across the table, ticking off the points on his long, bony fingers.
'Why did we go to Sheen?' Benjamin didn't wait for my reply. 'We were to view the corpse because we suspected it was the body of an imposter. The only proof of our suspicions is the lack of any chain or evidence of one on the body. We discovered that the man in the coffin at Sheen probably never wore a chain round his waist.' Benjamin paused and pushed his platter away. 'I deduce the corpse we have just seen does not belong to James IV. So what did happen to the King?'
I remember trimming the wax from the fat tallow candle in the centre of the table.
'We are faced with a number of choices, Master,' I replied. 'First, King James may have fought in ordinary armour, been killed, and Surrey chose the wrong body. Secondly, James may have been killed either before the battle or at its beginning. Perhaps by assassins sent by Les Blancs Sangliers.' I shrugged. 'That could explain the confusion and the poor leadership of the Scottish Army at Flodden.'
'Or,' Benjamin intervened, 'James could have fled, perhaps to the abbey at Kelso.'
'But,' I replied, 'if any of what we have said is true, why does Queen Margaret grieve over the corpse of an imposter? She, of all people, would know the body of her husband!'
Benjamin just stared down at the table, shaking his head. I laughed sourly.
'Can't you see the weakness of our argument, Master? If the corpse at Sheen is that of an imposter, surely it would be safer for Margaret just to get rid of it?'
'Perhaps she hopes people will see what they want to,' Benjamin replied, 'any change detected being dismissed as fanciful or due to the work of the embalmers.' He leaned back in his chair and breathed heavily. 'Yes, Roger, we must remember that. In my days as a Justice's Clerk I saw enough corpses to know that death can grossly disfigure even the comeliest of faces.' He grimaced. 'Indeed, the Queen might not be guilty of deception. Perhaps Margaret just wants that corpse to be her husband's, to give her something to grieve over. She might prefer to accept that rather than face the horror of the idea of her husband, the King of Scotland, being thrown into a pit among commoners.' He looked up. 'What's the matter, Roger?'
'Well, Master, we are building our arguments on the fact that there were men who looked like King James.'
Benjamin rubbed his face. He suddenly looked tired and drawn. 'We have discussed that, Roger. Remember, James belonged to a Scottish clan. It's more than possible that there were a number of courtiers with the same build and looks as he.' He smiled wanly. 'Never forget, nobles love to ape the fashions and styles of their masters. I can think of at least half a dozen of Henry's courtiers who could be mistaken for the King.' He leaned heavily against the table. 'The possibilities are endless,' he muttered.
'How do we know James wasn't taken prisoner by Surrey and hustled down to some secret prison in England?' He toyed with his goblet, watching the lees of wine dance and jump. 'All I do know, Roger, is that all the deaths we have witnessed, all the mysteries we have faced, have their origin in what happened at Flodden.'
'We know a lot of things,' I retorted, 'but we can't prove anything.'
Benjamin fell silent and we sat watching the guttering flame of the candle.
'Perhaps there are other keys which might fit the lock of this mystery?'
My master stared at me.
'Well,' I stammered, 'if we could resolve the White Rose murders. ..?'
Benjamin stirred and shouted at the slattern to bring a toothpick. The sleepy-eyed girl brought one across and Benjamin began to clean his teeth. I watched him in disbelief for my master was usually keen to observe the finest etiquette at table. Benjamin, however, cleaned his teeth, cupping his hand occasionally as he studied the end of the toothpick.
'Master, are you well? Do you find that toothpick more enigmatic than the mysteries we face?'
He grinned. 'Aristotle, my dear Roger, always claimed that careful observation, coupled with logic, would solve any problem under the sun. Do you remember Ruthven, and the morsels we found between his teeth
?'
I swallowed hard. 'Master, I have just eaten!'
'Yes, Roger, so have I. Indeed, over the last few weeks since Ruthven's death, I have been careful, wherever possible, to eat the same foods he did. Do you know, I have never yet found anything which closely resembled what we discovered in his mouth. An interesting thought, eh, Roger?'
'Do you have any solution?'
'As I said at Nottingham, faint glimmerings – all shadow and no substance. But, come, tomorrow I travel north and you go to Dover. Who knows what truth a tavern in Paris and a monastery in Scotland may hold.'
We rose early the next morning. I carefully packed my saddle bags, making sure I had a copy of Selkirk's verse and Moodie's gift. Benjamin travelled with me through the misty, frost-bitten countryside. We chattered about Ipswich and I found the business of Scawsby's treatment of my mother still rankled in my heart. At the crossroads to the south of Norwood we parted company. Benjamin clasped my hand warmly.
'Enough of Scawsby, Roger. Be of good cheer. We shall meet in Paris and be home by Yuletide.' He grinned and I caught the mockery in his voice. 'Whatever happens, Roger, we have been successful. Queen Margaret herself has congratulated us. Such praise,' he added drily, 'cannot be dismissed lightly.'
I pictured the bitch's fat, doughy face and drew small comfort from the memory.
'Remember, Roger, I will be at Le Coq d'Or before Christmas. Be there!' He clasped me once more by the wrist and, turning his horse, cantered quickly out of sight.
I had no choice but to travel south. I did think of making a call at Ipswich to present my warmest compliments to Mistress Scawsby but that would have been too dangerous. Scawsby had killed my mother, nearly had me hanged, and I thought a more subtle revenge would prove a finer dish to serve. So I continued south, making my way along the great chalk road which snaked across the Downs to Dover. Looking back, I suppose I was contented enough, though sad to be parted from Benjamin. Oh, the follies of youth!
Chapter 9
I entered Dover at nightfall just as the sky darkened and rain began to beat down on my plumed cap. I stayed in a flea-ridden inn whilst outside the sea began to seethe and boil under a sudden black storm. By dawn the weather had abated though the sea was still angry, its surface broken into dark ridges and furrows by a " treacherously high wind. A sloop took me out to the ship which dipped and rose wildly in the harbour. Oh, God, it looked pitifully small and flimsy! I spent the day riding, or rather bucking, at anchor, the only time in my life I really wanted to die.
The next day the idiot of a captain decided to make a run for the open sea. I gave up. I stayed in the darkness vomiting as the ship veered wildly through the troughs of high waves. I prayed to every saint I knew and, when I reached Harfleur, spent a great deal of my time resting in a seaside tavern. After a few days my condition improved, the weather changed dramatically, and I made my way across the cultivated, fertile fields of Normandy. A week's journey to the Porte of St Denis and into Paris. At first the city entranced me: the spacious meadows and dark green woods near the walls; the windmills, chateaux and palaces being swiftly built in the new Italianate style with their facades of grey stone, high arched windows and elegant columns.
My knowledge of French was rather better than Benjamin knew. I soon found my way around both the broad boulevards and reeking, rat-infested alleyways. Now Paris is a city which seethes like a hissing snake.
It is full of intrigue, subtle plots, and traders who could cheat a beggar out of his skin. My store of money began to dwindle but at last I found Le Coq d'Or, a dingy, two-storey building which stood at the mouth of one of the runnels on the far side of the Grand Pont opposite the elaborately carved Notre Dame Cathedral.
The landlord was a snot-nosed, weak-eyed character with greasy, spiked hair and a face as pitted as the track which ran past his dingy tavern. I took a garret there, posing as an English student from the halls of Cambridge. It was the sort of place where you are accepted for what you claim to be, your worth depending on how much gold or silver you have in your purse. After two or three days I bought the landlord a carafe of his own wine – the mean-mouthed varlet picked a costly, unsealed jar, not the usual watery vinegar he served most of his customers – and asked him about Selkirk. The fellow gave me a world-weary look and shook his head.
'I cannot remember everybody, Monsieur.' A piece of silver jogged his memory. 'Ah, yes,' he answered, breathing wine fumes into my face. 'The Scottish doctor – thin as a beanpole with untidy red hair. He and his stupid verses!' The fellow shrugged. 'He was here for a while. But then other Goddams [This is what the French used to call us English] came and took him away.'
'What did Selkirk do?' I asked. 'I mean, before his arrest.'
The landlord made a face. 'He stayed in his room, he went out.. .'
I fidgeted angrily and the fellow licked his lips.
'I think he went to St Denis,' he continued. 'To the abbey there. Or to Notre Dame.' He brought a dirty finger up to his lips. 'He was always carrying a casket, a battered, tattered thing which he guarded with his life.'
'What was it?'
'I don't know.'
'The English who came for him, did they find the casket?'
'No, I don't think so. They ransacked his room and were angry because they couldn't find anything. Selkirk laughed at them, jumping up and down here in the taproom. Some of the things he said made no sense so they gave him a crack across the head and took him away. That was the last I saw of him.'
I could make no further headway with the landlord so I made enquiries amongst the other customers: a beggar who whined for alms inside the doorway and a greasy-haired knave, but they only repeated what the landlord had said. The only clue (and one I ignored at the time), was Selkirk's interest in the Abbey of St Denis to the north of the city. I was planning to go there when my descent into the horrors began.
Now, Moodie had given me a package. Of course, I had opened it and found nothing more than a piece of costly silk, blood-red and fringed at each end. A sort of sash for some lady to wear round her smooth, soft-skinned waist. It gave off a fragrant smell which stirred my memory though I could not place it. Anyway, bored by my stay at Le Coq d'Or I decided to go to the shop under the Sign of the Pestle in the Rue des Moines and leave Moodie's present there.
[Yes, yes, my little chaplain is correct. He has pursed his sour lips and guessed my true intentions: if I had not been so bored, I would have sold it. I wish to God I had!]
I found the Rue des Moines and entered the small apothecary's shop, but I was disappointed. There was no Madame Eglantine, only a garrulous old man who chattered like a magpie, took the package and said he would hand it over to the lady next time she visited the place. I told him who I was and where I was staying and then forgot the whole incident. Two days later I was in the taproom of Le Coq d'Or, the slattern beside me half drunk. She pressed up against me, her fingers tickling my codpiece though I knew she was after my purse. My hand was teasing her juicy shoulders and succulent breasts thrust out from a dirty, though very low-cut bodice. A call of nature interrupted my pleasure and I went out to the necessary house behind the tavern, nothing more than a hole in the ground enclosed by a shabby wooden palisade and a door which bolted from the inside. I was squatting there, contemplating my future, when suddenly the door burst open. Three figures, their faces muffled by cloaks and broad-brimmed hats, seized me and began to beat me as if I was some dog.
Now in life there is nothing more defenceless or ridiculous than a man with his pantaloons about his ankles, his shirt tail raised and his mind on other matters. The three ruffians pummelled me, banging my head against the wooden slats. Of course, I fought back like a veritable lion but my sword and dagger were in the garret and who in the tavern would listen to my screams?
Within a few minutes my body was one mass of bruises from head to toe. Two of the ruffians seized me, pushing me against the fence, and I could only gabble in horror as their leader drew a long, thin stiletto
and pulled back my shirt to expose my throat. He said something in French about the shop and the Sign of the Pestle. I saw the evil light in his eyes and knew that so far they had only been playing with me: their real intent was to kill. I gave one more scream, I don't know for whom. Benjamin! My mother! My nurse! Wolsey! Anyone! The dagger moved closer, nicking part of my neck just under my left ear.
'I'm too young to die!' I screamed.
[I can see that little bastard of a chaplain laughing again. Does he think it's funny? Look, I'm no hero and, if you had your pants down and three ruffians bent on killing you, you'd bloody scream!]
I closed my eyes and suddenly the jakes door was thrust back and a veritable mountain of a man stood there. He roared in French at my three assailants, brandishing a huge club. They took one look at him and scampered over the fence as quickly as rats over the timbers of a sinking ship. I just slumped and sat down in the mud and dirt.
The Colossus squatted down next to me. I glimpsed a broad, cheery face, a bristling beard and moustache.
'Who are you?' I whispered.
The fellow stood up and I saw the long, brown gown of a Franciscan monk, the rough cord round his waist and the wooden crucifix slung on a piece of string round his neck.
'I am Brother Joachim,' he announced in a voice like thunder.
'You are a priest?'
'I am a Franciscan and a Maillotin.'
'A Franciscan I know. What's a Maillotin?' I mumbled through bloodied lips.
'Never you mind!'
He scooped me up in his great arms, barking at me to make myself presentable and half-carried me back into the taproom. On his orders the tapster broached a good cask of wine and brought across a bowl of water. Joachim cleaned my face, wiping dirt from the bruises whilst I greedily gulped the thick red claret. Perhaps I should have known there was something wrong; the taproom was strangely quiet, the slattern had disappeared and the landlord seemed too busy to care.
