October, the Feast of St Luke, we assembled under the looming battlements of the Tower. Servants, porters, farriers and fletchers bustled about. Grooms, scullions and carters carried our baggage and loaded it on to the great wagon: hangings, feathered beds, yards of damask and costly cloth, towels and napkins, were piled into chests. The furnishings of Queen Margaret's chapel -candelabra, heavy missal books with their golden covers and carved stands, cushioned prayer stools – not to mention the pots and pitchers from the kitchen, were piled in great heaps on the cobbled yard. Of course, I avoided so much work, going out to the bloody square on Tower Hill to gawk at the gore-drenched platform where the Great Ones of the land had their heads cut off.
At last we were ready. We left the Tower by a postern gate and went along Hog Street, turning right to hear Mass at St Mary Grace's church. The cavalcade stopped and orders were issued for us to rest in the fields around the church whilst Queen Margaret and her principal attendants went inside. I was all agog with curiosity for I had glimpsed a cart, covered by a black damask cloth, arriving outside the main door of the church. It was protected by yeomen of the guard wearing the royal red and gold livery. The cloth was pulled back and a large casket was taken into the church. Catesby ordered us to follow it.
I wondered what it was as we trailed up the dark nave behind Agrippa, Melford, and others of the Queen's party. The casket was placed on trestles before the high altar. Queen Margaret stood at the head, the rest of us on either side. I craned forward. Queen Margaret, white-faced and with dark-ringed eyes, nodded slightly and Catesby prised loose the lid to reveal white, gauze cloths which gave off a sweet fragrant perfume. These were removed and – oh, sweet Lord, I nearly fainted! The corpse of a man lay there: red-haired, red-bearded, face long and marble-white. The body was clothed in a purple gown and a silver pectoral cross winked in the flickering candle light. The man looked to be asleep though his eyelids were only half-closed. I saw small wounds, red gashes, high on the cheek bones. Immediately the group knelt.
'Who is it?' I whispered.
'Her husband,' Benjamin murmured. 'The late James IV of Scotland, killed at Flodden!'
I stared at the skull-like face, the hollowed cheek bones, the red hair now combed smoothly back from the forehead. I later learnt that the corpse had been badly mauled in battle, the face disfigured by a crashing axe blow. The embalmers had used all their skills to repair the body. Queen Margaret muttered something to Catesby.
'Of your mercy,' Sir Robert intoned, 'pray for the soul of our late King James IV and take your leave. Her Grace wishes to be alone.'
We all filed out of the church, leaving Queen Margaret with her shadows whilst we waited in the warm autumn sunshine.
'Master Benjamin,' I muttered, 'the King's corpse has been above ground for four years.'
'The English generals,' he replied, 'had the body dressed and embalmed after Flodden and sent it south for our King to view.' He smiled and looked away. 'You know our good Henry – he fears neither the living nor the dead. He kept the corpse shut away in a special chamber at Sheen Palace.'
'And the Queen will take it back?'
'No, no!' Ruthven interrupted, sidling up behind us. 'King Henry has decreed that it stays here until she is restored to Scotland.'
I turned and looked at the man's tear-stained face.
'You loved King James?'
'He had his failings, but he was a great prince. Noble-hearted and generous to a fault.' Ruthven looked up at the birds wheeling and twisting against the blue sky. 'Such a noble prince,' he whispered, 'deserved a better end than that.'
Queen Margaret came out of the church, a veil covering her grief-stricken face. Benjamin tugged Ruthven by the sleeve, indicating he wished to talk to him. We walked further away from the group.
'What was your master like?' Benjamin indicated with his head towards the eerie church. 'The late James IV? I mean, as a man?'
'A strange person,' Ruthven replied, 'tinged with the new learning from Italy. King James was interested in medicine and was absorbed in all aspects of the study of physic and the human body.' He rubbed his eyes with the back of his hand. 'Do you know, he even founded a chair of medicine at one of the universities?' Ruthven glanced away, now lost in the past. 'The King's curiosity and hunger for knowledge led him down many strange paths. On one occasion he hired a Satanist, a monk who dabbled in the Black Arts.' Ruthven looked at the party clustered round the church door. 'In fact, Doctor Agrippa reminds me of him, but that was years ago.' Ruthven looked at us sharply. 'Do you know,' he whispered, 'Carey believes his grandfather met Doctor Agrippa in Antioch. But surely it's not possible for a man to live so long?' He sighed. 'Anyway, this Satanist promised he could make things fly. Whether he did or not I don't know, but James loved the good as well as the mysterious things of life – fine wine, beautiful women. He had bastards by at least two of his mistresses, Marion Boyd and Margaret Drummond. He would have lived a long and full life had it not been for Flodden.' Ruthven ground his teeth together. 'He should have heeded the warnings.' 'What warnings?'
'A few days before he joined his army, King James was at prayer in the royal chapel at Linlithgow. A ghostly figure appeared, dressed in flowing robes of blue and white. The spectre carried a great staff and, with his high forehead and blond hair, bore an uncanny resemblance to a painting of St John. In loud, sepulchral tones, this vision warned James to give up war and consorting with wanton women. One of the King's companions tried to seize the apparition but it vanished.' Ruthven gnawed at his lip. 'A few days later the army assembled outside Edinburgh and a ghostly voice was heard shouting at midnight. It seemed to come from the Market Cross. This voice called on James and all his commanders to appear before Pluto, God of the Underworld, within thirty days.' Ruthven shrugged. 'The prophecy was fulfilled. Within a month James and most of his commanders were dead, killed at Flodden.' The steward turned and spat on the ground. 'So, Master Daunbey, you know more about my master. Any further questions?'
'Yes,' I interrupted, 'when my master told you about Selkirk's mutterings, you seemed alarmed, even disturbed.'
Ruthven gazed gloomily at me. Do you know, I really thought he was going to tell me something, but his protuberant eyes refused to meet mine.
'I have said enough,' he muttered as he saw Moodie approach.
'The Queen mourns for her husband,' the chaplain squeaked.
'Does she?' Ruthven quipped. 'How can she?' 'What do you mean?' Benjamin turned as quick as a top, his eyes sharp and questioning. 'What do you mean, Ruthven?'
'I have heard stories, Master Daunbey.' Ruthven nodded towards the church. 'They say King James was not killed at Flodden and that corpse belongs to someone who merely looks like him.'
'Is that possible?' I asked.
Ruthven pursed his lips.
'It's possible,' he whispered. 'First, we always see what we expect to see. Secondly, the royal corpse was mangled; it had been in the hands of embalmers and above ground for four years. Thirdly, at Flodden James dressed at least sixteen of his knights in royal armour and coat of arms. God knows for what reason – he didn't lack courage. And, finally, there were several knights of James's court who looked like him.' He glanced up and saw Agrippa approaching. 'That is all,' he concluded.
I watched him walk away. Benjamin, his arms folded, seemed lost in his own thoughts. He waited until the smiling doctor had passed by.
'An interesting story, Roger. Do you believe it?'
'According to Fabyan's Chronicle,' I replied, airing my knowledge, 'when Henry IV fought at Shrewsbury against Hotspur, he dressed several of his knights in royal armour.'
[Oh, by the way, I also told William Shakespeare that and other details. You will read them in his play Henry IV. Will was so grateful he said he would base one of the characters of that drama on me. I think it is the Prince, though malicious tongues say it is Falstaff. God knows, I have nothing in common with him!]
We could talk no longer. Catesby was rapping out orders for us to mount and within the hour we had left St Mary Grace's, striking east for Canterbury. Queen Margaret and Lady Carey rode in front of the cavalcade, shimmering in their heavy brocade dresses. Alongside them rode Carey, Agrippa and Catesby, then us followed by the creaking carts and household minions. Melford and a group of archers fanned out before the cavalcade; they cleared the way of the usual merchants, traders, pedlars, students and hosts of vagabonds and beggars who cluster on every road like flies round a horse's arse.
