Paul Doherty - The White Rose murders

Benjamin did while I glanced around. Catesby and Agrippa sat impassive. Moodie's face was a white blur in the candlelight. Scawsby looked frightened, his eyes two small piss-holes. Carey looked dumbstruck, Ruthven strangely excited, whilst even Melford leaned forward and watched Benjamin with amber cat-like eyes.

'Do the words mean anything to anyone?' Benjamin asked.

Ruthven cradled his cat and stroked the back of its head, his hand moving faster and faster across the animal's fur until it stirred restlessly and mewed in protest.

'What else?' Catesby asked. 'What else did Selkirk tell you?'

'He did not give me the poem,' Benjamin replied. 'I found it. But once I asked him why he was in prison, and he muttered about his days at Le Coq d'Or tavern in Paris and said he was a prisoner because he could "count the days".'

Ruthven suddenly rose as if to suppress some excitement inside him.

'Oh, no!' he hissed, speaking his secret thoughts aloud. 'Selkirk was not as mad as he appeared. I suspect he was in the Tower not because he could count the days but was privy to secrets which could rock thrones and topple crowns!' He stood staring at us.

'What do you mean?' Melford snarled. Ruthven's face paled. He shook his head and quietly left the room. After his departure, we all sat silent and uneasy about what to do next until Catesby cracked a joke and the conversation turned to other matters.

The next morning we left for Leicester. I wondered once again what was so important about Selkirk. What did his words mean? Why was he killed? Was the assassin now amongst us? Would he strike again? What did Ruthven know? What mysteries surrounded us? A king who may not have died? A royal corpse not buried? A queen who now sought to return from her self-imposed exile? The intrigue around the White Rose and the mysterious Les Blancs Sangliers? I asked Benjamin but he just shook his head and pointed across to the dark fringes of the forest.

'In there, Roger, spirits, witches, dwarfs, Robin Goodfellow and the terrifying boneless creatures lurk. Perhaps Satan himself.' Benjamin nodded towards our companions, now silent after a hard night's drinking. 'Such terrors,' he whispered, 'pale compared to the demons which lurk in the mind of man and feed on the human spirit.'

I still remained puzzled as we travelled north. The journey was uneventful enough; nights spent in some local hostelry, priory or convent where Queen Margaret's influence and the Cardinal's letters obtained us free food and clean but hard beds. We crossed the silent wilderness north of London, the grass withering under a warm sun, and passed eventually into Leicestershire. The weather became cooler under the influences of cold breezes from the frozen north, observed my master. I hadn't any idea what he was talking about but I listened attentively to his description of lands I had never imagined, with their dark green forests, snowy slopes and frozen lakes. Sometimes Benjamin would play on the lute he always carried, whilst I accompanied him on the rebec. (Oh, yes, I had learnt to play this whilst spending a few months in a rotting gaol due to one of the many misunderstandings which plagued my life.) The rest of our party were still silent and withdrawn, openly mistrustful of each other. Memories of Selkirk's death might have receded slightly but the mystery still remained.

Sometimes we met other travellers and conversation with them enlivened the boredom: merchants, wandering friars, the occasional hunting party, clerics or landless men looking for labour. They constantly warned us of the danger of the roads, about the thieves and vagabonds who dressed in green or brown buckram and played Robin Hood in the dark forests or wastelands we passed through. At other times my master, tired by the reticence of Agrippa and the others, continued his absorption with alchemy. Both of us did try to draw Ruthven further on his outburst in the taproom but he openly scorned us. He became withdrawn, chatting only to Moodie.

At last we turned off the main high road and approached the city of Leicester. The mayor and civic dignitaries met us in a blaze of colour at Bow Bridge with the usual greetings and pleasantries. My master studied the bridge carefully.

'Roger,' he whispered, 'you know Richard III, the Great Usurper, passed over here on his route to Bosworth? As he passed, his leg struck the side of the bridge and an old witch prophesied that when he returned his head would strike the same spot.' Benjamin leaned closer. 'Richard's naked corpse was brought back slung across a donkey. Tonight we are to lodge at the Blue Boar inn near High Cross, the same tavern the Usurper rested at before Bosworth. Now I suspect some villainy so when we get there, slip away. Go to the Greyfriars Church, conceal yourself somewhere so you can watch a spot, a place in the Lady Chapel on the left side of the sanctuary. Stay there as long as you can. Only when it is dark should you leave – and be careful! Whatever happens, just observe.'

That's what I liked about Benjamin, always kind and considerate, and of course he needn't have advised old Shallot to stay out of danger! We wound our way through the cobbled streets of Leicester past the great, four-storeyed houses of the merchants, jutting out above us, and into the Newarks. The great Blue Boar inn was a half-stone tavern mansion, its glazed horned windows stared out over the market place. My master pulled me back, watching the riders mill around, paying particular attention to the green-slimed horse trough in front of the Blue Boar.

[You know, of course, the Blue Boar was once called the White Boar but after Bosworth, they changed the colour from white to blue. I once talked to an old retainer of the Usurper who claimed Richard hid five hundred pounds in gold in the great bed there. I have been back to the tavern but have never found this treasure.]

Ah, well! I took a wineskin and went through the alleys and byeways of Leicester to Greyfriars Church. Inside it was cool and sombre, the pillars stretching up into the blackness, the nave and aisles silent except for the birds which nested under the eaves outside. I genuflected before the winking sanctuary lamp and concealed myself in one of the side chapels. From there I had a good view of a beautiful statue of the Madonna and Child lit by the flickering flames of candlelight, as well as of a small raised plinth of stone which I supposed marked the tomb of some notable. I sat, dozed, slurped from the wineskin, said a few prayers and kept my eyes fastened on the Lady Chapel. Some of the devout did come in; a mother and child, an old woman, and a dusty cloaked Franciscan. I watched the light fade outside the windows as the church grew cold, sombre and eerie.

'Hic est terriblis locus – this is a terrible place.' The words were scrawled on the frontal of the marble high altar. A terrible place indeed! Night fell, the candle flames flickered out and the ghosts of the dead came back to their resting place (or so the old wives say), somewhere sacred, a fitting protection against the assaults of the demons. The church door remained closed. I shivered and cursed my master. A lay brother came by, keys clanking. He wanted to close the church so I made myself known, claiming I was making a pilgrimage in atonement for my sins. He looked strangely at me, muttered something about coming back within the hour, and sauntered off. I went back to my hiding place. At last the door opened. A dark, cowled figure came in and went up to stand in the Lady Chapel. I crouched down to hide behind a pillar, and watched. The mysterious figure stared down at the tomb and then turned.

'Roger Shallot!' The voice was low and hollow. 'Roger Shallot, I know you are there!'

Oh, Lord, my heart beat quicker and a sudden sweat drenched my body.

'Shallot!' the ghostly figure bellowed. 'Come out!' The voice echoed in the high arches of the church.