At Canterbury Queen Margaret said prayers before the tomb of Thomas a Becket. Lord, such a sight: the casket which held Becket's body was encased in sheets of solid gold and, over the years, devout pilgrims had brought sapphires, diamonds, pearls and small rubies to be fastened into the goldwork as homage to the saint. Some of these gems were as large as goose eggs but the most precious was an exquisite diamond called the Regal of France. It had such fire and brilliance that even when the church was dark this diamond glowed like a flame in the sanctuary.
[Old Henry put an end to all that. The tomb was wrecked, the gold and silver went to his mint, and the Regal of France on to his large fat hand. Why do I tell you this? Well, the Regal of France caused murder, bloody intrigue and violent death. But that was for the future – you can read about it in one of my journals.]
After Canterbury we took the old Roman Road into Hertfordshire, planning to stop at a royal manor, but the weather turned cold; blustery rain clouds sped in from the sea and we were forced to break our journey at one of the great taverns just outside Canterbury. Melford soon cleared the chambers, telling the irate landlord to shut his mouth and present to the Exchequer, before the Feast of St John the Baptist, whatever bills we incurred. I remember that night well as the evil we had to face gathered and drew closer.
We were all sitting in the great taproom. It was dark and blustery outside and the flames of the candles danced, filling the room with moving shadows. The meal was over, Queen Margaret and Lady Carey had withdrawn and we men sat around the large oaken table, drinking deeply from the wine bowl. Ruthven had his cat with him, stroking it and muttering something – I could not tell whether he was talking to himself or his pet.
I noticed his comrades distanced themselves from him. Indeed, rumours about Ruthven were rife – how he was a warlock because he was left-handed and talked to his cat. Ruthven just ignored them.
[In those days, if you were a witch you were safe as long as you kept away from the common people: once I saw a group of villagers spread-eagle a warlock, drive a stake through his heart and bury him beneath a crossroads gibbet.]
Anyway, back to my companions in that darkened taproom: Catesby looked bright-eyed and flushed. Moodie, more like a mouse than ever, nibbled at a bit of cheese. There was ever-smiling Doctor Agrippa, hawk-visaged Carey, the thick coarsened face of Melford and, of course, Scawsby, his face sour as ever as if he had just broken wind and hoped no one would notice. The conversation swirled, passing from one topic to another.
Now Benjamin and I, recalling the Cardinal's secret instructions, had decided to reveal Selkirk's verses as soon as the opportunity presented itself. Benjamin indicated with meaningful glances at me that this stark, sombre evening was such an appropriate time. He skilfully guided the conversation back to the sinister events surrounding Selkirk's death for the murder had affected everybody. Oh, there had been speculation that Scawsby was wrong and the Scotsman had died because of some strange seizure. Or again, that his death was the result of the Black Arts, and many sombre looks were directed at Doctor Agrippa, Ruthven and even Benjamin. My master bore all this with his usual tolerance and bonhomie. He had apparently recovered from his visit to Johanna, hiding his feelings behind the usual veil of secrecy. Indeed, he had hardly referred to her except once as we passed through a small hamlet and had seen children baiting a poor, crazed woman by the crossroads. Benjamin glanced sideways at me and grimaced despairingly. However, he had not forgotten Selkirk's death and, when we were alone, constantly speculated on how the Scotsman had been murdered and what his enigmatic rhyme could mean.
In that taproom he decided to push the matter further and Catesby gave him his chance.
'If Selkirk was murdered,' Sir Robert declared, 'what was the reason?'
'Master Daunbey should have found that out,' Scawsby replied spitefully.
'He questioned the wretch long enough,' Carey barked.
Moodie squeaked in support whilst Ruthven just dismissed them all with one scathing look.
'Oh, but I did,' Benjamin announced.
'You did what?' Carey snapped.
'I may not know how Selkirk died but I think I know why.'
'Nonsense!' Carey retorted. 'What do you mean?'
'Selkirk wrote a poem,' Benjamin continued quietly.
'Mere brainless chatter!' Carey answered.
'Oh, no,' Benjamin whispered.
Outside the wind blustered and beat against the wooden shutters and the huge sign, swinging on its iron pole, creaked and groaned as if calling out across the darkened, rain-soaked meadows.
Benjamin closed his eyes and chanted aloud:
'Three less than twelve should it be,
Or the King, no prince engendered he.
The lamb did rest,
In the falcon's nest.
The Lion cried,
Even though it died.
The truth Now Stands,
In the Sacred Hands,
Of the place which owns
Dionysius' bones.'
Now, the Lord be my witness, Benjamin's words created a pool of watchful silence.
Ruthven pushed his hair wildly back from his face. 'Repeat it, man!' he whispered hoarsely.
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
