Paul Doherty: The White Rose murders

Finally, there was Scawsby. At first he didn't recognise me but, when he did, he threw me such a look of loathing. Lord save us, I thought, if I fall ill, I'll call up Satan himself to tend me rather than allow Scawsby near my sick bed. Of course, the doctor greeted Benjamin fondly.

'Benjamin! Benjamin!' he called out once we had taken our seats. 'You were sorely missed at Ipswich.' The smile on the old bastard's face broadened. He rose, pushed back his taffeta cloak and extended his hand. 'It is good to see you returned to your uncle's favour.'

Benjamin clasped the old quack's hand. 'Good Master Scawsby, thank God you are with us! We Ipswich men…' Benjamin let the sentence hang in the air.

Scawsby threw another look of contempt at me and turned away.

The rest of the household turned back to their dishes of meat and vegetables.

'In God's name, Master,' I muttered, 'why did the Lord Cardinal appoint Scawsby to be Queen Margaret's physician? His answer to everything is leeches, and more leeches!'

'Master Scawsby has his good points,' Benjamin replied. 'Some people just misunderstand him.'

'Aye,' I whispered, 'including his patients. They can do very little about it because most of them are dead!'

My master smiled faintly, shook his head and began to eat. I looked around our motley crew: a harsh, unwelcoming collection of rogues with their dark, faded doublets and sour faces. They were a small, hostile group bound tightly together by their hankering after former glories. They were all English-born and had travelled to Scotland with Margaret when she had married King James. They spoke of their dead king with respect, even awe. At first I couldn't determine the true nature of their relationship with their exiled Scottish Queen. I thought it was fear tinged with respect, for Margaret kept her distance, but within days I had changed my mind: they were terrified of her, yet still bound to her as their only path to wealth and comfort. Of course, there were exceptions. Melford seemed impassive rather than afraid; he also took his duties seriously. Where the Queen went so did he, and I idly wondered whether he gave her more than just protection. Just after our arrival at the Tower, I confided this thought to Benjamin and he looked surprised. He sat on the edge of his bed in our musty chamber and shook his head.

'Queen Margaret is not sexually satisfied,' he announced to my stupefaction.

'How do you know that, Master?'

'Oh,' he replied airily, 'her face betrays her. Melford may sleep with her but he gives her no satisfaction.'

I gazed back in mock wonderment. I knew Benjamin had his secrets but I did not regard him as an expert on the female kind.

'You see, Roger, men regard women as an instrument of great pleasure.' He cleared his throat. 'Or, at least, some do. Few men see it as part of their devoir to give women pleasure and fully satisfy them.' He wagged a finger at me. 'You remember that, Roger.'

I nodded solemnly, lay down on the bed and, turning my face to the wall, wondered where in the world Benjamin drew his theories from. Of course, I was arrogant. My master proved the old adage: 'Still waters run deep'.

Now, I did say the Queen's household in general was terrified of her, but there were two other exceptions. Doctor Agrippa treated Queen Margaret almost with disdain, capping her remarks, quipping with her, and not showing the least trace of fear, never mind respect. The other person not to show fear was Catesby and I soon discovered he was a deep fellow. His relationship with the Queen was rather mysterious. Sometimes at table he would go up and sit beside her. Lady Carey and Melford would withdraw and the Queen and Catesby would sit, heads together, locked in deep discussion as if they were man and wife or brother and sister, bound by deep bonds of affection. Catesby had already proved himself to be an expert swordsman on our journey from Ipswich, now he demonstrated his skill as a politician. On our first night in the Tower, I asked him why the Queen had chosen the fortress when there were more comfortable places on both sides of the Thames. He smiled.

'The Queen didn't choose it – I did. First, we are near Selkirk. Secondly, we are free from infection. And finally,' he looked slyly at me, 'it's easy to keep an eye on everyone when we are all together in one place!'

A clever, subtle fellow, Catesby!

On our third day in the Tower we were shown up into Selkirk's prison cell, high in Broad Arrow Tower. The room was more comfortable than ours; it boasted two braziers, a faded tapestry on the wall, a desk, chairs, and a comfortable four-poster bed. Nevertheless, it smelt fetid and rank. I noticed with distaste how the chamber pot full of turds was sitting in the centre of the room where everyone could see and smell it. Selkirk himself was not an attractive man: white-faced and skeletal with tawny, grey-streaked hair which fell in a tangled mess to his shoulders. His eyes were light blue and full of madness. Benjamin hardly recognised him as the fellow he had seized in Dieppe but, strangely enough, he remembered Benjamin and greeted him like a long-lost brother. Catesby, Farringdon the Constable, and Doctor Agrippa showed us up. They treated Selkirk with mock deference and then, once the introductions were completed and " Benjamin and I seated, withdrew, the door being locked firmly behind them.

I studied that poor madman and wondered why he was so important. Ruthven, the only member of the Queen's household who treated us with any friendliness (for the rest regarded Benjamin as the Cardinal's spy), had told us a little about Selkirk: how he had been King James's physician and journeyed with him to Flodden. After the King's death there, Selkirk had fled abroad, first to the Low Countries and then into France.

'God knows what turned the poor fellow's mind,' Ruthven had murmured.

Now I, too, wondered that as Selkirk sat at his desk, his long, bony fingers moving pieces of parchment about. Benjamin talked to him, reminiscing about their meeting in Dieppe. Sometimes the madness would clear and Selkirk would reply in a sensible, lucid fashion but then his mind would wander off. He would jabber in Gaelic, or pick up the scraps of parchment from his desk and start reading them as if we were no longer there. He allowed Benjamin to look at these.

'Scraps of poetry,' Benjamin murmured. He looked up at Selkirk. 'Who wrote these?'

'The King was a bonny poet,' the fellow replied. 'He and Willie Dunbar.' Selkirk smiled slyly. 'Some are composed by me.'

He handed over a few more scraps of paper and I studied them. God forgive me, they were as meaningless as some forgotten language; mere phrases and sentences, some in English, others in Scots, none made any sense. Nevertheless, Benjamin treated the prisoner gently, like a child, talking softly, asking questions, creating a bond of friendship. Every day we returned. Benjamin always brought a huge flagon of wine and a tray of cups. Each time the guards posted on the chamber door inspected the cups and tasted the wine, whilst Farringdon the Constable always escorted us in. Eventually I grew tired of this.

'The poor fellow's mad!' I exclaimed. 'Who would want to hurt him?'

Farringdon frowned, bringing his thick, black brows together. 'God knows.' He scowled. 'But orders are orders, and they come from the highest in the land.'

I also asked Catesby this but he just shrugged and murmured, 'Selkirk is more important than you think.'

So I let the matter rest. I confess I admired Benjamin's skill and wit. Usually he would let Selkirk ramble on but when the man became lucid, Benjamin would quickly pose his questions.

'What do you know that is so important? Who are Les Blancs Sangliers? Why are you in the Tower?'

Selkirk would straighten in his chair and shake his head.