The White Rose

by Michael Clynes

  '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 supposed to have worn it for at least twenty years. The result of such constant chafing would definitely be left on the skin.'

  I jumped as one of the shutters suddenly rattled.

  'Come on, Master,' I whispered. 'Let's be gone from here. We have seen enough!'

  I tied the points of my hose, pushing down my shirt, glad to protect myself against the unearthly chill in that ghastly chamber. I tapped the corpse gently with my feet.

  'No need for further proof, Master. This man may have fought at Flodden but he is not King James. The corpse does not bear the chafing marks of a chain.'

  Benjamin sat down on one of the trestles, his hand over the coffin, and rubbed the heel of his hand against his chin.

  'Master,' I insisted, 'we should go.'

  We re-arranged the funeral cloths and decently restored the corpse to its coffin, pressing the lid firmly down. Benjamin carefully extinguished the torches and I almost shoved him through the door, glad to escape from the miasma of the unburied dead. The steward was waiting for us at the foot of the steps.

  'You have seen all you wanted, Master?'

  Benjamin slipped two silver pieces into his hand. 'Yes, and remember, keep quiet about this, though I suppose there's no one here. The court is at Windsor?'

  The fellow swallowed nervously. 'Yes and no, Master. The King has gone but . . .'

  'Who is here?' Benjamin rasped.

  'Her Grace the Queen and her young daughter, the Princess Mary.'

  'They must not know!' I whispered. 'Master . . .'

  Benjamin understood my warning glance. We pushed past the steward, re-crossed the cobbled yard and entered the main palace building. We were almost past the entrance to the main hall when a woman's voice called out: 'Signor Daunbey! Signor Daunbey!'

  Benjamin stopped so suddenly, I almost collided with him. A woman stood just within the hall. She wore a gold-fringed dress of red murrey with a white silk head-veil; around her throat was a golden necklace of bejewelled pomegranates. Beside her stood a small, red-haired girl, white-faced and dark-eyed. The woman lifted her veil and came forward.

  'Your Grace!' Benjamin went down on one knee, tugging at my sleeve for me to follow suit. 'Roger,' he whispered, 'it is the Queen!'

  The woman approached. I stared up into the kind-eyed, sallow face of Catherine of Aragon. She looked at me and I caught the amusement in her eyes.

  'Signor Daunbey, please stand. And your friend?'

  Benjamin stood up, looking a little flustered, peering over his shoulder and hoping the steward would not make an appearance.

  "Your Grace,' he stammered, 'you know my name?'

  She smiled though her eyes became hard.

  'I have a memory for faces and names, Signor Daunbey. You are the Cardinal's nephew. I have seen you at court. I am used to . . .' now she stammered, 'to studying what new faces appear.' She pushed the little girl gently before her. 'Though you have never met my daughter, the Princess Mary.'

  We bowed and kissed the small white hand.

  'Your Grace, I thought you would be at Windsor?'

  Now the Queen looked away.

  'I cannot,' she answered, her voice guttural, revealing her Spanish background. 'I cannot share the same rooms.' She licked her lips. 'I am the Infanta of Spain and Queen of England. I cannot share a room never mind my husband, with a whore!'

  I looked at her dark face, filled with a mixture of anger and hurt, then at little Mary beside her who, over the years, solemnly drank in the insults offered to her beloved mother.

  [Do you know, Henry often did that! Dumped poor Catherine and Mary in some deserted palace whilst he went whoring. When he finally divorced Catherine, he sent her to a damp, draughty cottage in the hope that she would die of pleurisy. Of course she didn't! The fat bastard poisoned her. Very few people knew that yet I was there when they opened poor Catherine's dumpy body and took out her heart. Believe me, it was black and blown up like a rotting pig's bladder. Mary, of course, never forgot! Don't you believe the stories about King Henry being buried at Westminster. I was there the night she exhumed her father's body and had his rotting remains tossed into the Thames. God rest them both, two good women viciously treated by a cruel man! However, that was in the future.]

  At Sheen Catherine just seemed pleased to see a friendly face. We chattered a while and Benjamin was on the point of leaving when the Queen stepped forward.

  'Signor Daunbey, why are you here? Do you bring messages?'

  The Queen looked at me and glimpsed the iron chain in my hand.

  'You have been to see the corpse?' she asked.

  'Yes, Your Grace, on my uncle's orders.'

  Catherine nodded. 'I was Regent, you know,' she half-whispered. 'It was I who sent old Surrey north to crush James at Flodden.'

  'Your Grace,' I blurted out, 'we have seen the corpse. Would Your Grace be kind enough to answer certain questions?'

  Benjamin looked at me in surprise but, I'll be honest, I was tired of this subterfuge and Catherine seemed the friendliest person we had met since this horrible business had begun. The queen smiled and tweaked me gently by the cheek.

  'I have heard of you, Shallot,' she murmured. 'The Lord Cardinal has described your escapades until the tears have soaked his cheeks.'

  'I am glad to be of service.' I answered sarcastically.

  [Believe me, old Wolsey had occasion to cry about me before he shuffled off his mortal coil.]

  Catherine waved us into the hall and we sat in the window seat. Benjamin stammered out an apologetic request - how he would appreciate it if no one else was told about our visit. Catherine smiled warmly. Little Mary sat beside her like a doll, her thumb stuck solemnly in her mouth.

  'Your questions, Signor Shallot?'

  'Your Grace, how was the corpse when it was brought south?'

  'A bloody mess,' she replied. 'One side of the face was badly mauled. The embalmers worked skilfully, even as they brought it here. The royal tabard was soaked in blood. I sent it to Hen— the King in France as a token of our great victory.' She peered through the mullioned glass window. 'I should not have done that,' she whispered.

  'Your Grace,' I asked, 'are you sure it was the corpse of the King of Scotland?'

  Catherine shrugged. 'I had never met James alive, so how could I recognise him in death? He wore a ring on his right hand; the tabard and armour were royal.' She made a face. 'The corpse was shaved but the beard and moustache were red. Surrey said it was James, though I have heard otherwise!'

  'But no chain?' I persisted.

  'Ah, the chain,' she murmured. 'No, there was no chain. But I tell you this - even if the corpse is not James's, Surrey himself assured me that no royal personage could escape from that battle. However, James might have fought in plain armour. It is a common practice.' She smiled at us. I noticed how her teeth were still white, not rotting black like those of the courtiers who constantly stuffed sweets and comfits into their mouth. 'What is your interest in the corpse?' sh
e asked. 'Though perhaps you would be wise not to answer that!'

  Benjamin smiled and we rose. We bowed and were about to leave when the Queen suddenly murmured, 'Signor Daunbey, Signor Shallot.' Now she looked solemn-faced. I caught a glimpse of the dark beauty which had once captivated Henry. 'Be most careful,' she warned. 'And be assured, my husband the King has a close interest in these matters.'

  We took Catherine's warnings to heart. I dropped the chain in the moat and we fled like the wind from Sheen. It was late afternoon by the time the wherry brought us back to Botolph's Wharf. Benjamin and I had hardly 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 the runnels on the far side of the Grand Pont opposite the elaborately carved Notre Dame Cathedral.

  The landlord was a snot-nosed, weak-eyed character with greasy, spiked hair and a face as pitted as the track which ran past his dingy tavern. I took a garret there, posing as an English student from the halls of Cambridge. It was the sort of place where you are accepted for what you claim to be, your worth depending on how much gold or silver you have in your purse. After two or three days I bought the landlord a carafe of his own wine - the mean-mouthed varlet picked a costly, unsealed jar, not the usual watery vinegar he served most of his customers - and asked him about Selkirk. The fellow gave me a world-weary look and shook his head.