Paul Doherty: The White Rose murders

Oh, yes, I hold all these honours. Even Hal's daughter, red-haired, cat-eyed Elizabeth, travels from Hampton Court to seek my advice. A strange one, Elizabeth! Her hair has all gone now but she wears the best red wig London can sell. It's a pity about her teeth; her mother's were a beautiful white, very strong if I remember correctly. Now, I am speaking truthfully (you wouldn't think it, looking at Elizabeth's white, narrow face; she doesn't smile now, lest the paint crack), she was a bonny girl and a great ruler – though no more a virgin than I am. We both know that! When she visits me, we sit in my private chamber downstairs, laugh about the past and wonder about our bastard son. Oh, a marvellous bonny girl, Elizabeth… those strong, white legs! A great rider but, as I have said before, that's another story.

Now where was I? Murder, that's what I was talking about before my chaplain, the vicar who is writing my memoirs down, distracted me by picking his nose and asking stupid questions. I was talking about the undead, those stained with the blood of others. How they visit me every night, stand round my bed and mock my titles and the riches I have amassed because they know the truth.

'Old Shallot!' they taunt. 'A liar, a thief and a coward!'

The latter really hurts. What's wrong in running? I have had to many a time. I thank the good Lord that I was born with the quickest wits and fastest legs in Christendom. But that's in the past. In my chamber I have a portrait of me when I was thirty. It's painted by Holbein and I recommend it as a fair likeness. I often stare at it: the hooded eyes, one with a slight cast in it (I told Holbein what I thought of him for that!) and the black, glossy hair falling in ringlets to my shoulders. My face is sallow but my lips are free and full, and my eyes, though severe, are ringed with laughter lines and there is a dimple in both cheek and chin. God knows I look as holy as a monk but you've heard of the old adage: 'Don't judge a horse by its looks'? I recommend it to you as one of the great eternal truths. I am the biggest sinner who ever prayed in church and I confess to having a personal acquaintance with each of the seven deadly sins except one – murder!

I have killed no woman or child and those who have died at my hands probably deserved an even more horrible fate. Indeed, these are the spectres who come to haunt me after the chimes of midnight.

Last night I recognised some of the men and women from my past. This morning their faces are still fresh in my mind as I sit at the centre of my maze and bellow for the vicar to bring his writing tray. One face, however, is always missing. Well, one in particular: Benjamin, my master, nephew of the great Cardinal Wolsey, one of my few friends. Benjamin with his long, kindly face, sharp quill nose and innocent sea grey eyes. Of course, he never comes. I suppose he is walking with the angels, still asking his innocent bloody questions. Oh, but I miss him! His eyes still mock me down the years: he was kind, generous, and could see the image of Christ in even the most blood-soaked soul.

I am of the old faith, you know. Secretly I miss the Mass, the priest offering the bread and wine, the smell of incense. I have a secret chapel built into the thick walls of my great hall and keep a blackened statue there which I rescued from Walsingham when the soldiers of Protector Somerset vandalised the chapel. I took the statue and every day, when I can, I light a candle in front of it for the soul of my dead master. However, let me concentrate on the dreams which come when the night is silent, except for the screech of the bat and the ghostly wafting of the feathered owl.

My chaplain is ready. There he sits on his quilted stool, his little warm bum protected by a cushion, quill in hand, ready to shudder with delicious horror at my shocking past. He tut-tuts as I drink my wine. One glass a day, that's what the little sod of a doctor ordered, but it's not yet noon and time for the Angelus bell and I have already downed six full cups of blood red claret. But what do doctors know? No physician can ever be successful. If he was, his patients would never die. I have known many a hearty fellow who thoroughly enjoyed life and the most robust health until he fell into the hands of physicians with their secret chants, newt-skin medicine, horoscope charts and urine jars. Last week the mealy-mouthed hypocrite who proclaims he looks after my health came scuttling in to examine my urine so I filled the jar full of cat's piss. The idiot stood there, holding the jar against the light, before solemnly declaring that I should eat more fish and drink less claret. Good Lord, I nearly died laughing! Mind you, doctors are not all bad. If you want a real bastard, hire a lawyer. One of these imps of Satan came up from the Middle Temple offering to write out an inventory of my goods so I could make a will. 'After all,' he commented, looking slyly at me, 'you have so many offspring.' I asked the bastard what he meant? He replied with a knowing leer how many of the young men and women in the surrounding villages bear more than a passing resemblance to my goodself. My little fart of a chaplain nods, but I am not ashamed. I have, in many ways, been a true father to my people. Anyway, back to the lawyer! I soon wiped the grin off his silly face when I asked him if he was a good runner. 'Swift as a hare,' he declared.

I hope he was. I gave him five minutes' start and loosed my dogs on him.

Ah, yes, my memoirs… If I don't start soon the chaplain will claim he feels faint from hunger. So you want to hear about Murder? So you shall. Bloody, horrible deaths. Murder by the garrotte, by the knife, by poison. Murder at the fullness of noon when the devil walks, or in the dark when that sombre angel spreads his eternal black wings. Murder in palaces, Murder in rat-infested hovels, in open country and in crowded market places. Murder in dungeons, assassination in church. Oh, Lord, I have seen the days! I have seen judicial Murder: those who have died at the hangman's hands, strung up, cut down half-alive, thrown on the butcher's block and their steaming bodies hacked open. The heart, entrails and the genitals slashed and plucked out and the rest,

God's creation, quartered and thrown like cold meat into refuse baskets. I have seen women boiled alive in great black vats, and others tied in chains and burnt above roaring fires at Smithfield.

The chaplain leans forward. 'Tell them about the maze,' he whispers.

'What do you mean?' I ask.

'Well,' he squeaks, 'tell them why you dictate your memoirs in the centre of a maze.'

I'd like to tell him to mind his own bloody business but it's a fair comment. You see, at Burpham I have laid out the manor gardens like those I saw at Fontainebleau when I served as fat Henry's spy at the court of the lecherous Francis I. Now mazes have become very popular, although they weren't meant to be: you see, years ago, people took a vow to go on a crusade but, because of lack of money or time, some never reached Outremer. So Holy Mother Church decreed that they could be released from their vows if they travelled a number of times round a subtly devised maze. Of course, what was planned as a penance soon became the fashion. Francis I loved mazes. He used to take his young maidens in there and only release them if they succumbed to his lustful embraces. When the bastard found out I was a spy, I was led into the centre of the maze, hunting dogs were put in and the entrances sealed. You can imagine old Shallot had to use both his wits and legs! (However, that's another story.)

Anyway, I like my maze: it protects me from the importunate pleadings of my brood of children, legion of relatives and all the other hangers-on. Oh, yes, there's another reason – during my days at the court of Europe I became the sworn enemy of certain secret societies. I may have grown old but I still guard against the soft footfall of the assassin so I feel safe in my maze. No one can get near me and no one can eavesdrop. And if the weather changes and I cannot smell the perfume of the roses or listen to the liquid song of the thrush, I shelter in my secret chamber. After all, my memoirs are meant for posterity, not for the listening ear of some secret spy.