my life.) The rest of our party were still silent and withdrawn, openly mistrustful of each other. Memories of Selkirk's death might have receded slightly but the mystery still remained.
Sometimes we met other travellers and conversation with them enlivened the boredom: merchants, wandering friars, the occasional hunting party, clerics or landless men looking for labour. They constantly warned us of the danger of the roads, about the thieves and vagabonds who dressed in green or brown buckram and played Robin Hood in the dark forests or wastelands we passed through. At other times my master, tired by the reticence of Agrippa and the others, continued his absorption with alchemy. Both of us did try to draw Ruthven further on his outburst in the taproom but he openly scorned us. He became withdrawn, chatting only to Moodie.
At last we turned off the main high road and approached the city of Leicester. The mayor and civic dignitaries met us in a blaze of colour at Bow Bridge with the usual greetings and pleasantries. My master studied the bridge carefully.
'Roger,' he whispered, 'you know Richard III, the Great Usurper, passed over here on his route to Bosworth? As he passed, his leg struck the side of the bridge and an old witch prophesied that when he returned his head would strike the same spot.' Benjamin leaned closer. 'Richard's naked corpse was brought back slung across a donkey. Tonight we are to lodge at the Blue Boar inn near High Cross, the same tavern the Usurper rested at before Bosworth. Now I suspect some villainy so when we get there, slip away. Go to the Greyfriars Church, conceal yourself somewhere so you can watch a spot, a place in the Lady Chapel on the left side of the sanctuary. Stay there as long as you can. Only when it is dark should you leave – and be careful! Whatever happens, just observe.'
That's what I liked about Benjamin, always kind and considerate, and of course he needn't have advised old Shallot to stay out of danger! We wound our way through the cobbled streets of Leicester past the great, four- storeyed houses of the merchants, jutting out above us, and into the Newarks. The great Blue Boar inn was a half- stone tavern mansion, its glazed horned windows stared out over the market place. My master pulled me back, watching the riders mill around, paying particular attention to the green-slimed horse trough in front of the Blue Boar.
[You know, of course, the Blue Boar was once called the White Boar but after Bosworth, they changed the colour from white to blue. I once talked to an old retainer of the Usurper who claimed Richard hid five hundred pounds in gold in the great bed there. I have been back to the tavern but have never found this treasure.]
Ah, well! I took a wineskin and went through the alleys and byeways of Leicester to Greyfriars Church. Inside it was cool and sombre, the pillars stretching up into the blackness, the nave and aisles silent except for the birds which nested under the eaves outside. I genuflected before the winking sanctuary lamp and concealed myself in one of the side chapels. From there I had a good view of a beautiful statue of the Madonna and Child lit by the flickering flames of candlelight, as well as of a small raised plinth of stone which I supposed marked the tomb of some notable. I sat, dozed, slurped from the wineskin, said a few prayers and kept my eyes fastened on the Lady Chapel. Some of the devout did come in; a mother and child, an old woman, and a dusty cloaked Franciscan. I watched the light fade outside the windows as the church grew cold, sombre and eerie.
'Hic est terriblis locus – this is a terrible place.' The words were scrawled on the frontal of the marble high altar. A terrible place indeed! Night fell, the candle flames flickered out and the ghosts of the dead came back to their resting place (or so the old wives say), somewhere sacred, a fitting protection against the assaults of the demons. The church door remained closed. I shivered and cursed my master. A lay brother came by, keys clanking. He wanted to close the church so I made myself known, claiming I was making a pilgrimage in atonement for my sins. He looked strangely at me, muttered something about coming back within the hour, and sauntered off. I went back to my hiding place. At last the door opened. A dark, cowled figure came in and went up to stand in the Lady Chapel. I crouched down to hide behind a pillar, and watched. The mysterious figure stared down at the tomb and then turned.
'Roger Shallot!' The voice was low and hollow. 'Roger Shallot, I know you are there!'
Oh, Lord, my heart beat quicker and a sudden sweat drenched my body.
'Shallot!' the ghostly figure bellowed. 'Come out!' The voice echoed in the high arches of the church.
I came out, shaking with fright, and watched the cowled figure sweep towards me. I saw a white hand draw back the hood and my master's innocent face grinned at me.
'Benjamin Daunbey!' I snarled. 'My arse and thighs are sore from a day's hard riding. I have lurked like some ghost in this cold, dank church, and now you appear, making a merry jest of it all!'
He laughed and clasped my hand. 'Roger,' he quipped, 'you look as frightened as a gargoyle! I'm sorry I scared you.' He beckoned me closer. 'Did you see anyone come in? I mean, go to the tomb over there? Pay their respects or place a white rose?'
I shook my head angrily. 'Nothing, Master. Why should they?'
He linked his arm through mine and we walked over to the tomb. Benjamin tapped it gently with his boot.
'Here, Roger, lie the mortal remains of King Richard III. His body was brought back to Leicester after the battle of Bosworth Field and thrown into the horse trough at the Blue Boar. The present King's father, his conscience pricked, had the corpse buried here and later erected this tomb.'
[Oh, by the way, when Bluff King Hal broke with Rome because he wanted to get amongst Boleyn's petticoats, the tomb was wrecked and Richard's corpse dumped into the River Stour.]
'So, Master,' I blurted out, 'King Richard lies here? What did you expect?'
Benjamin chewed on his lip and stared up into the darkness.
'What did I expect? Well, here we are in Leicester at the final resting place of the White Boar himself. Members of Les Blancs Sangliers, the Guardians of the White Rose, are supposed to be amongst our party. Yet no one comes here to pay their respects…'He rubbed the side of his face. 'I find that strange.' He put an arm round my shoulder and walked me back towards the church door. 'See, what do we have here, Roger? A Scottish doctor murdered in the Tower. Why? Because he spoke riddles in verse, or because he didn't believe the story of Flodden? What really happened at that battle? Why did Queen Margaret re-marry so quickly? Why does my good uncle send us to plead for her?' He waved his hand. 'There's a mystery here, Roger, something quite terrible. I don't trust my uncle, and I certainly don't trust Queen Margaret!'
'And Doctor Agrippa?' I asked.
Benjamin let his arm fall away. 'I'm not sure,' he murmured. 'Who is spying on whom? Agrippa is reputedly the agent of the Cardinal, as Carey, Moodie and Catesby are of Queen Margaret. But whom do they really work for? Is it in truth the Cardinal, or our gracious sovereign, or the Earl of Angus? Or even some other foreign potentate
…? After all, the present Regent of Scotland is by education a Frenchman. He, too, might be involved in this macabre, mysterious dance.'
We left Leicester and reached Royston Manor late the next afternoon. As a weak sun died and the shadows closed in around us, we saw the high pointed gables and turreted walls of the fortified manor house beckoning darkly to us over the treetops. Royston was a cold, sombre place which blighted our spirits as soon as we glimpsed it. Benjamin and I had been entertaining the group with a French madrigal, my deep bass a smooth foil to my master's well-modulated tenor: a stupid little song about a maid who lost her wealth and her virtue in the great city. Queen Margaret declared the sound was sweet and despatched a small purse of silver in token of her thanks.
As we entered the main causeway which snaked through the trees to the manor's main door, the sight of Royston killed the song on our lips and the joy in our hearts.
My master deepened my unease with a story about the stark, square building's previous owners, the Templars; the monks of war who, two centuries previously, had been brutally crushed by the papacy and the French crown because of their alleged involvement in witchcraft, dabbling in the Black Arts as well as such unnatural vices as sodomy and the worship of a huge black cat. As we dismounted and the grooms hurried about gathering the reins of our horses, Benjamin continued his low-voiced description of the fallen order. (Sometimes, I think, my master liked to frighten me.)
'Do you know, Roger, the Templars worshipped a mysterious image, a dreadful face printed on a cloth.'
At the time I smiled wanly and wished Benjamin would leave me alone. [I only mention this because he was in fact wrong. The Templars were crushed but some of them remained as a secret coven and I have crossed swords with them over the years. I have seen their dreadful face and the stories are true – strong men have lost their
