return to Scotland fast enough. I'm sorry. Go on, Roger.'
'I wonder what Margaret was so frightened of? And what secrets she and the Earl of Angus share? Don't forget, Master, there are other mysteries which may be contained in the documents in that casket. What did Selkirk mean by the phrase he could 'count the days'? And why has King James's body not been returned to Scotland for burial?'
Benjamin nodded and stared at the dying flames of the fire.
'Which brings us to Selkirk's verses,' he said. 'We know the falcon is James, the lamb is Angus, the Lion also is the King of Scotland. Is Selkirk saying that somehow King James survived Flodden? Something we suspected when we viewed the corpse at Sheen.'
'Perhaps,' I interrupted. 'The verses do say the Lion cried even though it died. Finally, we have discovered who Dionysius was but not the real secret left with him.'
Benjamin picked up the casket and carefully examined the lining, searching for any secret compartment or hidden drawer.
'Nothing,' he murmured.
'Which brings us, Master,' I said, 'to the murders once more. Both Selkirk and Ruthven were found poisoned in chambers locked from the inside. No poisoned cup or dish was found there.'
Benjamin agreed.
'Whilst Irvine,' he remarked, 'could have had his throat cut by any member of Queen Margaret's household except for four; you and I who were at the convent, and Catesby and Melford who were in Nottingham. We also know that the Queen herself did not leave the manor house.'
'Which means,' I concluded wearily, 'that we do not know who the murderer really is, although we suspect Moodie. We do not know Selkirk's secret, even though we hold it in our hands. Above all, we do not know the meaning of the first two lines of his damnable poem, 'Three less than twelve should it be, Or the King, no prince engendered he!' '
On that merry note we both retired for the night. Benjamin spent most of the time sitting in a chair staring at the guttering candle flame, whilst my sleep was racked by terrible nightmares of my visit to Montfaucon. The next morning Benjamin dressed my wounds and we began our journey back to Calais. The weather improved and, although the roads were clogged with icy mud, we soon reached the Channel port where Benjamin used his warrants and his status to secure our passage home on a man-o'-war.
A terrible journey, believe me! If Hell exists, it must consist of being eternally sick on a ship which crosses the Narrow Seas but never reaches shore. I disembarked at Dover, cursing Benjamin, the King, the Lord Cardinal, and heartily wishing I was back in Ipswich, free from the baleful influence of the Great Ones of the soil. Matters were not helped when we found Doctor Agrippa waiting for us in a seaside tavern, cheerful and full of life as a well- fed sparrow. The fellow never seemed to age, nothing changed him; no lines of worry on his cherubic face, while those hard, glassy eyes shimmered with a quiet amusement.
He greeted us effusively, clasping Benjamin warmly by the hand. He insisted we join him for dinner where he regaled us with tidbits of gossip from the court and city.
'How did you know we were coming?' I asked crossly.
He smiled as if savouring some secret joke. 'I have my sources,' he quipped. 'The Lord Cardinal told me to come here. Your return was only a matter of time.' His face grew hard. 'You have news?'
'Yes and no!' Benjamin joked back. 'However, the game is not yet over and, if you'll accept my apologies, we still cannot discern friend from foe.'
That enigmatic little magician ignored this possible insult and deftly turned the conversation to other matters. We stayed one night in Dover, then travelled across a frost-hardened countryside back to London. Only God knows how he knew but Agrippa insisted we arm ourselves. He also warned us that, once we were back in London, we were to be careful where we went, to whom we talked and what we ate and drank.
His warnings proved prophetic. We were on a lonely stretch of road just outside London: it was late in the afternoon, darkness was about to fall and we were arguing about whether we should hurry on to the city or stay at some roadside tavern for the night. Our assailants, muffled and cloaked, seemed to rise out of the ground, running swiftly towards us, armed with dagger and sword. Now, in the ladies' romances, such encounters are full of brave oaths and heroic stances. However, I consider myself an expert in the art of assassination and murder and, I tell you this, violent death always comes quietly.
One minute we were riding our horses, the next we were surrounded by five villains intent on murder. Benjamin and Agrippa drew their hangers and set to with a will, the eerie silence of that lonely road shattered by grunts, muttered oaths and the scraping clash of steel. I drew my own sword, shouting defiance and encouragement to the rest. But, oh, Lord, I was frightened! These were not your ordinary footpads, they would never attack three well-armed, mounted travellers. Oh, no, these were assassins, despatched by the arch murderer we were hunting.
'Roger!' Benjamin shouted. 'For God's sake, man!'
Now I had been hanging back, attempting to develop some strategy.
[No, that's a he! My chaplain's right, I was petrified. Now you talk to any coward, a real coward like myself, and he'll tell you there's a point where fear becomes so great it actually turns into courage, not out of anger or fury but that marvellous innate desire to save your own skin. On that London road I reached such a point.]
Two assailants were pressing Agrippa whilst the other three had apparently forgotten me and were intent on bringing my master down. I closed my eyes and spurred my horse forward, my huge sword rising and falling as if I was the Grim Reaper himself. It's a wonder I didn't kill Benjamin but, when I opened my eyes, two of the rogues were dead of huge gashes between shoulder and neck whilst Benjamin was on the point of driving his sword straight through the breast of a third. Agrippa, his fat face covered in sweat, had already despatched one but now had lost his sword and kept turning his horse sharply to counter his final opponent. I waited until the fellow turned his back, charged and felt my sword sink deep into his exposed shoulder. The fellow whirled and, as he did so, Agrippa finished him off, plunging his dagger firmly into the man's back.
Death is so strange: one minute noise, blood, screaming and retching; the next, a terrible silence. You old soldiers who read my memoirs will realise I speak the truth. So it was on that fog-bound, lonely London road. Benjamin and Agrippa, chests heaving, cleaned their weapons. I sat like a Hector until I suddenly remembered my stomach and began noisily to vomit. Nevertheless, both my master and Agrippa were loud in their praise of my martial prowess. Naturally, I can resist anything but flattery and lapped it up like a hungry cat does milk. Of course, I glimpsed the wry amusement in Agrippa's eyes but Benjamin looked at me oddly.
'You're a strange one, Shallot,' he murmured. 'I'll never understand you.'
I dismounted and searched the corpses. I found nothing noteworthy except on one, possibly the leader, who had a considerable amount of silver which I pocketed for distribution to the poor. We then continued our journey, pushing on until we reached the city walls and lodged at one of the fine taverns on the Southwark side of the river. Oh, it was good to be back in London! To see and smell the greasy rags of the poor; the silk-slashed, perfumed doublets, velvet hose and precious buckled shoes of the rich. The pompous little beadles; dark-gowned priests; the lawyers from Westminster Hall with their fur tippets; and, of course, my favourites, the ladies of the night, with their hair piled high, low-cut dresses and heels which clicked along the cobbles. A bear had broken loose amongst the stews; a whore was being whipped outside the gates of St Thomas's Hospital; two butchers who had sold putrid meat were riding back to back on some old nag, their hands tied behind them, the rotten offal they had sold fastened tightly under their noses.
[Ben Jonson is right, London is a wondrous city! Within its walls you can see the whole spectrum of human behaviour: the splendour of the rich moving through the streets on damask-caparisoned palfreys and the bare-arsed poor who would slit your throat for a crust of bread.]
Strangely, Benjamin did not wish to visit his uncle who was wintering at the Bishop of Ely's inn just north of Holborn. He insisted we went direct to the Tower. We took the route through Cheapside because the Thames was frozen from bank to bank, past the mansions of the rich, the stalls full of fripperies, the mouldering Eleanor Cross and the great Conduit which was supposed to bring fresh water into the city. I say 'supposed to' for it had been
