Paul Doherty - The White Rose murders

Catesby grinned sheepishly. 'Unfortunately, yes, though Melford and I will leave for Nottingham within the hour to ensure the castle is ready for the Scottish envoys.' Catesby smiled. 'You have three days to reach Coldstream Priory. As for Ruthven… ' he turned and lifted the latch of our chamber door, 'as Scripture says: "… Leave the dead to bury the dead…" Eh, good doctor?'

And without further ado they slipped out of the chamber.

We took our leave of a sombre-visaged Queen Margaret and within the hour the steward's guide was leading us out of Royston Manor and into the mist-shrouded countryside. Catesby and Melford had already departed, riding hard for Nottingham, leaving Agrippa, the Careys, Moodie and the old quack Scawsby at Royston.

Our guide was a dour-faced, taciturn, little man who had as much chatter and wit as a dumb-struck oaf though he knew the bridle paths and trackways of Leicestershire like the back of his hand. It was a strange journey. The heavy mist rarely lifted but closed in like a cold, clinging cloud around us. We had the eerie impression that we were the only people alive and the clip-clop of our horses' hooves was the last remaining sound under heaven. Naturally, my master and I reflected on what had happened at Royston.

'I'm puzzled, Roger,' Benjamin kept repeating. 'Two most ingenious murders: both Selkirk and Ruthven poisoned in chambers locked from the inside.' He sighed, his breath hanging like a cloud in the icy air. 'Yet no trace of poison, no one enters their chamber… most subtle, most subtle!'

I could only agree and wondered if Agrippa's joke about magic might have some truth in it. I also guiltily recollected Lady Carey's insidious remarks: somehow or Other Benjamin was always close to the murdered person. Was he the assassin? I wondered. Did Benjamin carry secret orders from his uncle that Selkirk and Ruthven were to die for the common good? If so, who would be next? I dismissed the thoughts as too disturbing and concentrated instead on Selkirk's poem. The first and last lines especially puzzled me. Benjamin could give no enlightenment but speculated on what news Irvine might bring.

'Perhaps he will provide privy information which will explain it all,' he observed.

I shook my head. I had the uneasy feeling it would not be so simple. Moreover, since leaving Royston I was becoming concerned that we were being followed. Oh, I had no real evidence but a certain wariness, a feeling of unease. Perhaps it was only the effect of the cold, clinging mist but now and again I would catch a sound as if another rider were covertly following our route. We stopped and sheltered in a farmer's barn for the night and the following morning, misty as ever, did little to assuage my suspicions.

'What's the matter, Roger?' Benjamin asked, peering closely at me, his head deep in its woollen cowl. In front of us, the guide also stopped. I listened to the echoes of our horses' hoofbeats fade away, my ears straining.

'Master, we are being followed!'

'Are you sure, Roger?'

'As certain as I am that Queen Margaret has two tits!' I observed crossly.

Benjamin grinned wryly and listened with me. I thought I heard something but then the oaf of a guide urged his horse back, shouting out questions which would have roused the dead. Benjamin shook his head.

'Nothing, Roger,' he commented. 'Perhaps the ghosts of Royston?'

We continued on our way and reached Coldstream Priory just after dark, only being admitted within the convent walls after a great deal of shouting and argument. We waited in the yard until the lady prioress herself came out, a strange woman and rather young for such high office. She was not clad in the garb of her order but attired in a pale blue dress trimmed with the copper hue of squirrel fur. Her head-dress was old-fashioned, two veils of pleated lawn falling down either side of her heart-shaped face and fastened under the chin by a bejewelled gorget. Her skin was as white as milk, her eyes were green flecked with amber, and rather slanted. She looked slyly at my master, just like Queen Margaret had, though she greeted us civilly enough, ordering servants to take our guide and the baggage off to the guest house while she entertained us with cups of wine, fresh-baked bread and huge bowls of hot spicy broth. The prioress read the Cardinal's letters of introduction and listened to my master's questions about the arrangements for our meeting with Irvine. She just shook her pretty head and looked coyly at us.

'No such man has come here yet. Nor have we any warning of his arrival.'

'But My Lord Cardinal said the man would be here today, the Feast of St Leo the Great,' replied Benjamin.

The prioress pursed her lips.

'No other man has approached our convent walls, nor have travellers or pedlars reported anyone on the roads.' She smiled. 'Perhaps he has been delayed. Perhaps he will arrive tomorrow.'

Tomorrow came and went, 'creeping by' as Master Shakespeare would put it, but no Irvine arrived. We whiled away our time in the convent's comfortable guest house. Our clothes were laundered and, morning, noon and eve, we were invited to partake of fresh-cooked meals and wines even a king would have envied. A strange place, Coldstream Priory: no bells for divine office, just a rather hasty Mass said before noon. The nuns themselves gossiped freely in and out of church. Indeed, as my poet friend would put it, any regulations regarding their life seemed to be honoured more in the breach than in the observance. My master said they had a splendid library, as well they might, but the only work I saw the nuns do was clever and intricate embroidery of curtains, cloths and napkins.

The prioress seemed to regard my master as her chief concern. She solicitously asked if all was well, sending constant messages to enquire if there was anything lacking, or inviting him to walk with her in the sweet-smelling orchard outside the convent church.

My master's main concern was Irvine's non-appearance and when darkness fell on our third day at Coldstream, we both walked out on to the convent wall, peering into the darkness as if willing him to appear. The lady prioress joined us. She pressed close to my master, stroking his hand gently with one of her fingers.

'Master Benjamin,' she said, 'Irvine will arrive tomorrow perhaps. Come – a glass of wine laced with nutmeg?'

My master refused but I cheerfully accepted. The lady prioress glowered at me, shrugged, and with ill grace took me back to her own chamber across the cloister garden where she poured me the smallest goblet of wine I had ever seen. She then busied herself around the room, the implication quite clear: I was to drink up and get out as quickly as I could. I enjoyed making her wait but, just before I left, she called over to me, a false smile on her pretty, hypocritical face.

'Roger, your master – he is a true man?'

'Yes, My Lady,' I replied.

The prioress caught the tip of her tongue between her sharp, white teeth, her eyes sparkling with anticipation.

'A true stallion,' I continued. 'A great romancer where the damsels are concerned but…'

'But what?' she asked sharply.

'At times he can be shy and perhaps…'

'Perhaps what?' she snapped impatiently.

I nodded towards the bedchamber which I could glimpse through a half open door. 'My Lady, I think he is as taken with you as you are with him. Perhaps if My Lady were to wait for him tonight, there in the dark, he might recite some love poetry… a sonnet he has composed?'

The prioress smiled, turned away and opened a small coffer. She threw a clinking bag at me.

'If you can arrange this, Shallot, there will be another purse in the morning.'

'Oh, all My Lady has to do,' I replied with a bow, 'is leave a candle here burning in the window.' I pointed to the high sill which ran just beneath the horn-glazed covering. 'My master will take it as a sign, a beacon to lead him the way you wish.'