by Paul Doherty
'Why didn't you tell Catesby this?'
'For the same reason I never told Uncle – something may have gone wrong. Murder is still murder, Roger. What difference does it make if it was Harrington or James?' Benjamin picked up the pieces of manuscript from the table before him.
'Don't burn them, Master!' I shouted. 'Let me have them!'
Benjamin paused and pushed them across the table.
'Take them, Roger,' he whispered, 'but hide them well. They could be your death warrant.'
We spent the rest of the day carousing. We had fought the good fight, finished the race, kept faith with our masters and, though he did not know it, with King James of Scotland. Oh, we became the Cardinal's friends, swore to be his servants in peace and war but we also secretly pledged each other to watch 'Dear Uncle' most closely. We were committed to his service and the White Rose murders were only the first of a succession of mysteries.
Epilogue
So, this story is finished, yet there's more to come: conspiracies at court, treason in both high and low places and, of course, bloody affray and secret assassination. They've dogged my steps like bloodhounds down the years. If I have time you will meet them all – subtle, crafty men and women with fire in their eyes and the devil in their hearts.
Now there goes my chaplain again, jumping up and down on his stool. 'You think every woman's a wench!' the hypocrite exclaims. 'Every girl a whore!'
He's a bloody liar! Will he mention the poor girls I feed in the village? Or that I've made many women laugh and none of them cry? No woman has received discourtesy at my hands. Nor have I broken any hearts or laughed at their tears, even though love has shattered my heart too many times to remember. He's never met Katerina. Oh, sweet Lord, there was witchcraft in her lips. I still weep at the very thought of her…
And why do I write my memoirs? To exorcise the spectres which still haunt my soul. Tonight, when the sun sets and the moon hides furtively behind the clouds, the ghosts will return, led by Murder on his death-pale horse. They will sweep up the causeway and gather once more under the casement window of my chamber.
I also tell my story as an edification for the young. To correct the laxity in morals, and as a warning against the dangers of hard drink and soft women. Oh, I wish Benjamin could tell his story. I wish I could see him just once more. He would understand. He would deplore the depravity of our times, the allure of the flesh, the brave, empty promises of the world. Oh, the times! Oh, the festering lies! Oh, the lack of morals! Oh, for Fat Margot and a deep-bowled cup of sack!
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