Paul Doherty - The White Rose murders

'But no chain?' I persisted.

'Ah, the chain,' she murmured. 'No, there was no chain. But I tell you this – even if the corpse is not James's, Surrey himself assured me that no royal personage could escape from that battle. However, James might have fought in plain armour. It is a common practice.' She smiled at us. I noticed how her teeth were still white, not rotting black like those of the courtiers who constantly stuffed sweets and comfits into their mouth. 'What is your interest in the corpse?' she asked. 'Though perhaps you would be wise not to answer that!'

Benjamin smiled and we rose. We bowed and were about to leave when the Queen suddenly murmured, 'Signor Daunbey, Signor Shallot.' Now she looked solemn-faced. I caught a glimpse of the dark beauty which had once captivated Henry. 'Be most careful,' she warned. 'And be assured, my husband the King has a close interest in these matters.'

We took Catherine's warnings to heart. I dropped the chain in the moat and we fled like the wind from Sheen. It was late afternoon by the time the wherry brought us back to Botolph's Wharf. Benjamin and I had hardly exchanged a word, even when the boat glided by Syon Convent.

We collected our horses from the tavern and decided to skirt the city. We crossed Holywell Road, Deep Ditch, and travelled as fast as we could around Charterhouse and Clerkenwell, keeping well clear of the city before taking the road south to New Cross. We stayed at a splendid hostel there. Of course, I drank deeply from a mixture of relief at the Queen's open support as well as the need to forget the horrors of that grisly chamber. After the evening meal (sweet salmon cooked in white wine), Benjamin and I stayed up long after the taproom emptied. In the main our conversation was about the Queen, and the King's penchant for ever younger mistresses. At last Benjamin stared round the deserted room.

'What do you think, Roger? Did we see the corpse of James IV of Scotland?' 'I don't know,' I replied.

He leaned across the table, ticking off the points on his long, bony fingers.

'Why did we go to Sheen?' Benjamin didn't wait for my reply. 'We were to view the corpse because we suspected it was the body of an imposter. The only proof of our suspicions is the lack of any chain or evidence of one on the body. We discovered that the man in the coffin at Sheen probably never wore a chain round his waist.' Benjamin paused and pushed his platter away. 'I deduce the corpse we have just seen does not belong to James IV. So what did happen to the King?'

I remember trimming the wax from the fat tallow candle in the centre of the table.

'We are faced with a number of choices, Master,' I replied. 'First, King James may have fought in ordinary armour, been killed, and Surrey chose the wrong body. Secondly, James may have been killed either before the battle or at its beginning. Perhaps by assassins sent by Les Blancs Sangliers.' I shrugged. 'That could explain the confusion and the poor leadership of the Scottish Army at Flodden.'

'Or,' Benjamin intervened, 'James could have fled, perhaps to the abbey at Kelso.'

'But,' I replied, 'if any of what we have said is true, why does Queen Margaret grieve over the corpse of an imposter? She, of all people, would know the body of her husband!'

Benjamin just stared down at the table, shaking his head. I laughed sourly.

'Can't you see the weakness of our argument, Master? If the corpse at Sheen is that of an imposter, surely it would be safer for Margaret just to get rid of it?'

'Perhaps she hopes people will see what they want to,' Benjamin replied, 'any change detected being dismissed as fanciful or due to the work of the embalmers.' He leaned back in his chair and breathed heavily. 'Yes, Roger, we must remember that. In my days as a Justice's Clerk I saw enough corpses to know that death can grossly disfigure even the comeliest of faces.' He grimaced. 'Indeed, the Queen might not be guilty of deception. Perhaps Margaret just wants that corpse to be her husband's, to give her something to grieve over. She might prefer to accept that rather than face the horror of the idea of her husband, the King of Scotland, being thrown into a pit among commoners.' He looked up. 'What's the matter, Roger?'

'Well, Master, we are building our arguments on the fact that there were men who looked like King James.'

Benjamin rubbed his face. He suddenly looked tired and drawn. 'We have discussed that, Roger. Remember, James belonged to a Scottish clan. It's more than possible that there were a number of courtiers with the same build and looks as he.' He smiled wanly. 'Never forget, nobles love to ape the fashions and styles of their masters. I can think of at least half a dozen of Henry's courtiers who could be mistaken for the King.' He leaned heavily against the table. 'The possibilities are endless,' he muttered.

'How do we know James wasn't taken prisoner by Surrey and hustled down to some secret prison in England?' He toyed with his goblet, watching the lees of wine dance and jump. 'All I do know, Roger, is that all the deaths we have witnessed, all the mysteries we have faced, have their origin in what happened at Flodden.'

'We know a lot of things,' I retorted, 'but we can't prove anything.'

Benjamin fell silent and we sat watching the guttering flame of the candle.

'Perhaps there are other keys which might fit the lock of this mystery?'

My master stared at me.

'Well,' I stammered, 'if we could resolve the White Rose murders. ..?'

Benjamin stirred and shouted at the slattern to bring a toothpick. The sleepy-eyed girl brought one across and Benjamin began to clean his teeth. I watched him in disbelief for my master was usually keen to observe the finest etiquette at table. Benjamin, however, cleaned his teeth, cupping his hand occasionally as he studied the end of the toothpick.

'Master, are you well? Do you find that toothpick more enigmatic than the mysteries we face?'

He grinned. 'Aristotle, my dear Roger, always claimed that careful observation, coupled with logic, would solve any problem under the sun. Do you remember Ruthven, and the morsels we found between his teeth?'

I swallowed hard. 'Master, I have just eaten!'

'Yes, Roger, so have I. Indeed, over the last few weeks since Ruthven's death, I have been careful, wherever possible, to eat the same foods he did. Do you know, I have never yet found anything which closely resembled what we discovered in his mouth. An interesting thought, eh, Roger?'

'Do you have any solution?'

'As I said at Nottingham, faint glimmerings – all shadow and no substance. But, come, tomorrow I travel north and you go to Dover. Who knows what truth a tavern in Paris and a monastery in Scotland may hold.'

We rose early the next morning. I carefully packed my saddle bags, making sure I had a copy of Selkirk's verse and Moodie's gift. Benjamin travelled with me through the misty, frost-bitten countryside. We chattered about Ipswich and I found the business of Scawsby's treatment of my mother still rankled in my heart. At the crossroads to the south of Norwood we parted company. Benjamin clasped my hand warmly.

'Enough of Scawsby, Roger. Be of good cheer. We shall meet in Paris and be home by Yuletide.' He grinned and I caught the mockery in his voice. 'Whatever happens, Roger, we have been successful. Queen Margaret herself has congratulated us. Such praise,' he added drily, 'cannot be dismissed lightly.'

I pictured the bitch's fat, doughy face and drew small comfort from the memory.

'Remember, Roger, I will be at Le Coq d'Or before Christmas. Be there!' He clasped me once more by the wrist and, turning his horse, cantered quickly out of sight.

I had no choice but to travel south. I did think of making a call at Ipswich to present my warmest compliments to Mistress Scawsby but that would have been too dangerous. Scawsby had killed my mother, nearly had me hanged, and I thought a more subtle revenge would prove a finer dish to serve. So I continued south, making my way along the great chalk road which snaked across the Downs to Dover. Looking back, I suppose I was contented enough, though sad to be parted from Benjamin. Oh, the follies of youth!