'A painful way to die, Master.'
Benjamin shook his head. 'Not really, Roger,' he said, his voice muffled by the hem of his cloak which he held up to cover his nose. 'The wrist is cut and placed in warm water. They say death comes like sleep, a painless way to oblivion. The senators of ancient Rome often used it.'
I took his word for it and we left, glad to be free of the ghastly place. Outside Benjamin stared up at the darkening sky.
'The game is not over yet, Roger,' he murmured. 'Believe me, Moodie did not die in vain.'
He would say no more. We retired to our chamber, made ourselves as comfortable as our bleak quarters would allow, and later joined the rest of the household when they gathered to dine in the small hall. Queen Margaret had already left in a blaze of colour, escorted by Catesby and Agrippa, riding along Ropery, then Vintry Street into Thames Street, where she would meet a troop of her brother's royal Serjeants at Castle Baynard.
Catesby, if he had stayed, might have put a restraining hand upon the petty malice of his comrades. Previously they had ignored us: now they let their malice show. Carey (his wife had gone with Queen Margaret), Melford, Scawsby and the two killers from Clan Chattan, Corin and Alleyn, swaggered into the hall. To be truthful, I had forgotten about Earl Angus's gift to his estranged wife but the two Highlanders still remembered us. They smiled, displaying wicked-edged teeth, and once again I was reminded of hunting dogs studying their intended quarry. Benjamin and I sat at one end of the trestle board, they sat at the other, grouped together like stupid boys immersed in their own private jokes. The garrison had already eaten so we were alone. The servants brought platters of over-cooked, rather rancid meat, garnished with herbs, and once they withdrew and the wine circulated, Melford began talking at the top of his voice about sending boys to do men's work. The two Highlanders grinned as if they understood every word, Carey smirked whilst Scawsby gave that neighing laugh which made the blood beat in my temples. Coward or not, I could have plunged a dagger straight into his black treacherous heart. Benjamin ignored them, lost in his own thoughts, but at last Scawsby, his sallow face flushed with wine, rose and came to stand over me.
'So glad to see you, Shallot,' he purred. 'Another errand, another failure, eh?'
Benjamin nudged me with his knee so I looked away. Scawsby leaned closer and I wrinkled my nose at his sour breath.
'You are a base-born rogue, Shallot!' he hissed. 'If I had my way you would be buried like your mother in a pauper's grave!'
Benjamin seized my wrist before I could grasp my knife.
'Come, Roger!' he murmured. 'We have eaten our fill.'
He dragged me away for I could have killed Scawsby on the spot and anyone else who tried to interfere. Outside the hall, I turned to Benjamin.
'You should have let me kill him!' I accused.
'No, no, Roger, they are full of wine and their own importance. They think the game is over and we are to be whipped off like hounds, back to Uncle.'
'If you could prove Scawsby was the murderer!' I hissed. 'After all, he knows poisons.'
Benjamin looked away. 'Scawsby,' he murmured, 'is he the murderer or just a spiteful man who rejoices in the humiliation of others? But I tell you this, Roger, Moodie was innocent of any crime. He no more committed suicide than Selkirk or Ruthven!'
Chapter 11
My master still refused to share his thoughts. He spent the next day closeted in our chamber studying the manuscripts we had brought from Paris. I grew restless and said I would leave, so Benjamin warned me to be careful and stay well away from Queen Margaret's household. I left the Tower and went to the area known as Petty Wales, a maze of alleyways and streets which stretches down towards the Wool Quay. It was a cold day, late in February; a troupe of gypsies, Egyptians or 'Moon People', as the country folk call them, were holding one of their fairs. Of course, they had attracted every villain in London, including myself: cut-throats, palliards, pickpockets or foists, professional beggars, and all the scum of the underworld. I felt at home and wandered around the tawdry booths and stalls, seeing if I could catch the eye of some pretty wench or buy some trinket for one I had not yet met.
Now, as you know, I am a keen student of history and believe that chance and luck play a great part in the tapestry of life. If Harold had not been drunk before the battle of Hastings perhaps he would have won; or if Richard Ill's horse had not become stuck in the mud, the Yorkist royal line might well have continued. So it is with our petty lives. A fickle change of fortune can bring about the most momentous events. There I was wandering the alleys of Petty Wales whilst the hucksters and pedlars screamed for trade and the cookshops were busy serving hot eel pies and jugs of mulled wine. There were sideshows: the stuffed mummy of a Mameluke fresh from Egypt; a unicorn's horn; a dog with two heads and a lady with a long, flowing beard. What caught my fancy was a young boy screaming that, behind a tattered cloth, stood a giant from the far north.
'Almost three yards high!' he screamed. 'And a yard across! Tuppence and you can touch!'
Of course, it would be the usual trick, a very tall man standing on small stilts. The urchin plucked my sleeve, his eyes rounded in amazement, skeletal face alive with false excitement.
'Come, Lord,' he said, 'see this Cyclops. A veritable wonder!'
I smiled, tossed the lad a penny and asked: 'How come he's so big?'
The boy's master, sensing money, stepped forward.
'Because,' he lied, 'this giant was not nine months in the womb, as you or I, but eighteen!'
My jaw dropped and I turned away in amazement. Nine! Of course, every man born of woman lies nine months or thirty-eight weeks in his mother's womb. I remembered Selkirk's verse: 'Three less than twelve should it be', and his mutterings about how he could 'count the days'. I spun round and ran like a whippet, sliding, slipping and cursing on the wet cobbles back to the Tower. Benjamin, however, was missing and I suspected he had gone along the river bank to the convent at Syon. I had to curb my excitement and kept to my own chamber. I did not want Margaret or any of her household to sense any change in me. Early in the afternoon Benjamin returned, withdrawn and sombre-faced.
'Johanna?' I asked.
'She is well, Roger, as well as can be expected. Stretched,' he murmured, 'like a cobweb in the sun.' He scrutinised my face. 'But you have something to tell me?'
I told him what I had learnt in the fairground that morning and asked him to recall our conversation with Lord d'Aubigny in Nottingham Castle. Benjamin's gloom immediately lifted.
'And I have something for you, Roger!' he exclaimed and went across to his saddle bag. He pulled out the strange manuscript found in Selkirk's casket and picked up a small piece of polished steel which served as a mirror.
'What do the first words say?'
'We know that, Master Benjamin, a quotation from St Paul: 'Through a glass darkly'.'
He smiled. 'And you remember your Latin, Roger?' He passed the manuscript over to me. 'Hold this up, facing the mirror.'
I did so.
'Now, read the words in the mirror!'
Oh, Lord, it took a few minutes and I marvelled at Selkirk's ingenuity. He had written his confession in Latin but taken great pains to write each word backwards. I made out the first three words. 'Ego Confiteor Deo' -'I confess to God.' The rest was easy. In that cold, dark chamber of the Tower Benjamin and I plumbed the mysteries of Selkirk's poem and the terrible truths it contained.
'You see, Roger!' Benjamin exclaimed. 'In the end all things break down in the face of truth.' 'And the murders?'
Benjamin leaned back. 'Listen to this riddle, Roger!' He closed his eyes and chanted. 'Two legs sat upon three legs with one leg in his lap. In comes four legs, takes away one leg. Up jumps two legs, leaves three legs and chases four legs to get one leg back.' He opened his eyes and grinned. 'Solve the riddle!'
