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!
Chapter 9
I entered Dover at nightfall just as the sky darkened and rain began to beat down on my plumed cap. I stayed in a flea-ridden inn whilst outside the sea began to seethe and boil under a sudden black storm. By dawn the weather had abated though the sea was still angry, its surface broken into dark ridges and furrows by a ' treacherously high wind. A sloop took me out to the ship which dipped and rose wildly in the harbour. Oh, God, it looked pitifully small and flimsy! I spent the day riding, or rather bucking, at anchor, the only time in my life I really wanted to die.
The next day the idiot of a captain decided to make a run for the open sea. I gave up. I stayed in the darkness vomiting as the ship veered wildly through the troughs of high waves. I prayed to every saint I knew and, when I reached Harfleur, spent a great deal of my time resting in a seaside tavern. After a few days my condition improved, the weather changed dramatically, and I made my way across the cultivated, fertile fields of Normandy. A week's journey to the Porte of St Denis and into Paris. At first the city entranced me: the spacious meadows and dark green woods near the walls; the windmills, chateaux and palaces being swiftly built in the new Italianate style with their facades of grey stone, high arched windows and elegant columns.
My knowledge of French was rather better than Benjamin knew. I soon found my way around both the broad boulevards and reeking, rat-infested alleyways. Now Paris is a city which seethes like a hissing snake.
It is full of intrigue, subtle plots, and traders who could cheat a beggar out of his skin. My store of money began to dwindle but at last I found Le Coq d'Or, a dingy, two-storey building which stood at the mouth of one of
