Paul Doherty - The White Rose murders

'Not enough to kill?' I questioned.

'Oh, no,' Benjamin whispered, 'the death wound is elsewhere.' He turned the corpse over on its stomach and pointed to a great ugly bruise at the base of the spine. 'He was killed from behind. Someone crept up and thrust a sword under the back plate of his armour, slicing his spine.' Benjamin gestured to the back of the corpse's head. 'I suspect these wounds were due to the body being trampled in the fury of battle.'

'But is it the King?' I asked. 'Is it James?'

Benjamin turned the corpse on its back. 'Look at the hip bones, Roger. Can you detect any mark?'

I plucked one of the torches from the wall and crouched down, wrinkling my nose at the mild sour odour. 'No graze,' I muttered. I rose and walked to the other side. 'As white and as whole as the skin of a baby!'

Benjamin smiled and took the torch from me. 'Now, Roger, stand up. Push up your shirt and take off the iron chain.'

I did so, feeling rather strange to stand half-undressed in the presence of a mummified corpse. Benjamin pressed the cold steel of his dagger against my stomach.

'The chain has left slight welt marks, yet these will disappear. But,' he asked, 'where is the soreness?'

I pointed to my hip bones, especially the right which had taken the weight of the chain. Already an ugly welt had appeared. Benjamin re-sheathed his dagger.

'Now, Roger, it's obvious – you have worn that chain for a few days and it has left a mark. King James was supposed to have worn it for at least twenty years. The result of such constant chafing would definitely be left on the skin.'

I jumped as one of the shutters suddenly rattled.

'Come on, Master,' I whispered. 'Let's be gone from here. We have seen enough!'

I tied the points of my hose, pushing down my shirt, glad to protect myself against the unearthly chill in that ghastly chamber. I tapped the corpse gently with my feet.

'No need for further proof, Master. This man may have fought at Flodden but he is not King James. The corpse does not bear the chafing marks of a chain.'

Benjamin sat down on one of the trestles, his hand over the coffin, and rubbed the heel of his hand against his chin.

'Master,' I insisted, 'we should go.'

We re-arranged the funeral cloths and decently restored the corpse to its coffin, pressing the lid firmly down. Benjamin carefully extinguished the torches and I almost shoved him through the door, glad to escape from the miasma of the unburied dead. The steward was waiting for us at the foot of the steps.

'You have seen all you wanted, Master?'

Benjamin slipped two silver pieces into his hand. 'Yes, and remember, keep quiet about this, though I suppose there's no one here. The court is at Windsor?'

The fellow swallowed nervously. 'Yes and no, Master. The King has gone but…'

'Who is here?' Benjamin rasped.

'Her Grace the Queen and her young daughter, the Princess Mary.'

'They must not know!' I whispered. 'Master…'

Benjamin understood my warning glance. We pushed past the steward, re-crossed the cobbled yard and entered the main palace building. We were almost past the entrance to the main hall when a woman's voice called out: 'Signor Daunbey! Signor Daunbey!'

Benjamin stopped so suddenly, I almost collided with him. A woman stood just within the hall. She wore a gold-fringed dress of red murrey with a white silk head-veil; around her throat was a golden necklace of bejewelled pomegranates. Beside her stood a small, red-haired girl, white-faced and dark-eyed. The woman lifted her veil and came forward.

'Your Grace!' Benjamin went down on one knee, tugging at my sleeve for me to follow suit. 'Roger,' he whispered, 'it is the Queen!'

The woman approached. I stared up into the kind-eyed, sallow face of Catherine of Aragon. She looked at me and I caught the amusement in her eyes.

'Signor Daunbey, please stand. And your friend?'

Benjamin stood up, looking a little flustered, peering over his shoulder and hoping the steward would not make an appearance.

"Your Grace,' he stammered, 'you know my name?'

She smiled though her eyes became hard.

'I have a memory for faces and names, Signor Daunbey. You are the Cardinal's nephew. I have seen you at court. I am used to…' now she stammered, 'to studying what new faces appear.' She pushed the little girl gently before her. 'Though you have never met my daughter, the Princess Mary.'

We bowed and kissed the small white hand.

'Your Grace, I thought you would be at Windsor?'

Now the Queen looked away.

'I cannot,' she answered, her voice guttural, revealing her Spanish background. 'I cannot share the same rooms.' She licked her lips. 'I am the Infanta of Spain and Queen of England. I cannot share a room never mind my husband, with a whore!'

I looked at her dark face, filled with a mixture of anger and hurt, then at little Mary beside her who, over the years, solemnly drank in the insults offered to her beloved mother.

[Do you know, Henry often did that! Dumped poor Catherine and Mary in some deserted palace whilst he went whoring. When he finally divorced Catherine, he sent her to a damp, draughty cottage in the hope that she would die of pleurisy. Of course she didn't! The fat bastard poisoned her. Very few people knew that yet I was there when they opened poor Catherine's dumpy body and took out her heart. Believe me, it was black and blown up like a rotting pig's bladder. Mary, of course, never forgot! Don't you believe the stories about King Henry being buried at Westminster. I was there the night she exhumed her father's body and had his rotting remains tossed into the Thames. God rest them both, two good women viciously treated by a cruel man! However, that was in the future.]

At Sheen Catherine just seemed pleased to see a friendly face. We chattered a while and Benjamin was on the point of leaving when the Queen stepped forward.

'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!'