Despite the cold, I remember, it was a clear, sunny day. I kept silent, sitting back in the wherry to gaze forlornly across at the spires, towers and turrets of the city. We shot under London Bridge. I glimpsed the spiked heads of decapitated traitors, their shredded necks, gaping mouths and straggly hair. All were eyeless for the crows and ravens pluck the succulent pieces first. Once under the bridge the boatmen pulled out to mid-stream. They paused a while to let a fleet of barges, packed with city dignitaries, sweep by as stately as swans. Oh, the splendour of the rich! Minstrels played; the music wafted sweetly across the water from poops and sterns hidden under a dazzle of bright banners and flags. Silver bells tinkled and gold-embossed oars flashed rhythmically up and down. The splendour and pomp seemed to mock our secretive, eerie journey.
We passed Queenshithe, St Paul's Wharf, White Friars and the Temple. Benjamin nudged me as Westminster Abbey came into view. My master knew about my past: the abbey, you see, before fat Henry intervened, had a sanctuary where fugitives from the law sheltered from bailiffs and sheriffs' men. These outlaws pitched their tents in the abbey precincts, fought over stolen goods and, like Jack Hogg and I, stole out at night to rob and pillage the houses of the rich. The great bells of the abbey were booming and I idly wondered what would have happened to my life if Jack Hogg and I had not been taken. (Now let that be a lesson to you! Never protest at fortune: as one door closes, another opens. All you've got to do is make sure there's no trap beyond it.)
At last we reached the Palace of Sheen. The wherry pulled in and we disembarked at the great garden gate. The palace stands far back from the river, its only access being through fields and orchards which protect it against the vagaries of the Thames. Now Benjamin and I were most subtle. Before our journey we had discussed whether the court and its hangers-on would be there. We decided they would not. In autumn, Bluff Hal preferred Windsor and the hunting lodges in the great forest there. We were pleased to find the palace deserted (or so we thought) except for the usual steward and bailiffs who stayed throughout the year to clean the rooms, wash the hangings and sweep out the dirt once the court moved on. Benjamin acted with all the authority he could muster: displaying Wolsey's warrants and issuing orders in such harsh tones that everyone we met was soon running about as if the great Cardinal himself had arrived. We met the steward in his small chamber off the buttery near the Great Hall, a nervous, beanpole of a man with greasy, grey hair and a hare-lip which fascinated me.
'Master,' he whined, 'how can I help you?'
'You can keep secret counsel?' Benjamin asked sharply.
The fellow nodded, round-eyed. 'Of course, Master. My lips are sealed.' He clenched his mouth shut, making his face even more grotesque.
'You are to tell no one of our arrival here. We wish to see the corpse of the late James IV of Scotland.'
The fellow's mouth opened slackly and fear flared in his eyes. He licked his lips.
'That is forbidden,' he whispered.
'I am here on the Lord Cardinal's express orders,' Benjamin repeated. 'You have seen the warrants. Shall I go and tell my uncle you ignored them?'
The fellow's resistance collapsed like a house of cards; bowing and mumbling apologies, he led us out of the main palace building, across a deserted cobbled yard to a small tower built in the far wall of the palace. Two sentries armed with sword and halberd stood on guard. Once again there was discussion but Benjamin had his way. The door was unlocked, we climbed a flight of cold, damp, mildewed steps, another door opened and we stepped into an oval-shaped chamber. It was stripped of all decoration: no furniture, no rushes, no hangings on the wall. The shutters on the windows were firmly closed and padlocked. A perfect mausoleum for the desolate coffin which lay on trestles in the centre of the room.
'Light the torches,' Benjamin ordered. 'After that, sir, you will withdraw.'
The steward was about to protest but my master's gimlet stare forced him to obey. A tinder was struck and the cressets pushed into niches in the wall flared into life. Now, I openly confess, I was terrified. Oh, I have seen corpses enough. Old Shallot's a brawling man: a born street fighter and a soldier who has seen more battles than many of you have had hot dinners. Yet that chamber chilled me. I felt as if we were in the presence of a ghoul, the living dead. The steward closed the door behind him and our shadows danced against the wall as we stood transfixed looking at the coffin lid, half-expecting it to be pushed aside and the corpse to rise and step out. Benjamin must have caught my mood though of course, as always, he drew strength from my presence.
'Remove the lid, Roger.' I took a deep breath and ran my dagger under the rim of the casket, freeing the wooden pegs from their sockets around the edge of the coffin. We lifted the lid and placed it gently on the floor. The embalmers' perfume filled the room, tinged with a slight sourness which smelt repellent. We then removed the funeral cloths, lifted the gauze veils and stared down at the royal corpse. The heavy-lidded eyes were still half- open, the lips slightly parted; in the flickering torchlight the figure seemed to be asleep. I half-expected to catch a pulse in the throat, see the chest rise and fall and watch those long, white fingers creep towards me…
'Come, Roger,' Benjamin whispered. 'Oh, Lord, Master! What?' 'Lift the body out.'
I closed my eyes and grasped the legs as my master picked up the corpse by the shoulders. We gently lowered it to the floor.
'Now, Roger, let us remove the clothes.'
My stomach lurched and my heart began to pound. Now, when I was a prisoner of the French (and, yes, that's another story) I had to clear corpses from the battle field. I was so bloody delighted to be alive I moved corpses minus their heads, legs and arms, and didn't turn a hair. But when you lift a corpse that looks anything but a corpse, it's terrifying. You never really know what to expect.
[I see my chaplain's face has a greenish tinge around those high cheek bones he's so proud of. Good, perhaps he won't be so quick to stuff his fat, little stomach with delicacies from my kitchen!]
Anyway, in that desolate chamber at Sheen I removed soft buskins from the corpse's feet, carefully pushing back the blue robe and the white cotton shift beneath. Benjamin loosened the loin cloth. I could not bear to touch that part of the body.
Now, the embalmers had carefully replaced the face but the torso of the corpse was a mass of wounds and grossly disfigured by a black line which stretched from the crotch to the neck.
'You see, Roger,' Benjamin explained, 'the embalmers first slit the corpse open and remove the heart, stomach and entrails. They drain off as much blood as possible and wash the body with sour wine. After that, spices are packed in and the skin resewn.'
'Thank you, Master,' I replied courteously, feeling quite faint. I tried desperately to keep my gorge from rising and my stomach from emptying the contents of its last meal.
'Master,' I pleaded, 'what does all this prove?'
'Well, the body was badly mauled in battle.' Benjamin pointed with the tip of his finger at the purple-red crosses on the corpse's chest. 'These are arrow wounds. Here,' he gestured to the side of the chest, 'is a lance wound.' He stretched out his hand and tapped the corpse just above the knees. 'These are sword wounds. I suspect the King was surrounded and was lightly wounded by arrows. A spearman tried to bring him down with a lance thrust under the cuirass whilst another took a swing with a sword at the joints in the greaves on his legs. Not enough to kill.'
'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
