The White Rose (15 page)

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.'

I scampered out of the door. Master Benjamin was still on the convent wall, peering into the darkness. I ran up to the guest room, stripped naked and washed myself with a wet rag. I rubbed some of the fragrant perfume my master used into my neck and cheeks, borrowed his best cambric shirt, cloak and hood, and slunk back to the courtyard. I waited a while, hidden in the shadows, watching the convent settle for the night. Ah, yes, the lady prioress was also preparing herself. A candle appeared at her window, its flickering flame a beacon of welcome.

I slipped quietly across the courtyard, pushed open the door and stepped into the darkness. I quenched the candle flame with my fingers and slid into the bed chamber. Praise be, the lady prioress had no light or candle there. My eyes grew accustomed to the darkness and I glimpsed her dark shape on the bed, her long hair falling down to her shoulders. I slipped into the great four-poster bed, whispered a few French endearments I had learnt from a wench and set to with a will. The prioress may have been a lady but she welcomed my rough embraces with groans and shrieks of pleasure. Her body was succulent, slender and smooth. I confess she was one of the merriest tumbles I have ever had.

[Oh, dear, there goes my chaplain again, tut-tutting and shaking his noddle! The little hypocrite! Does he have to be reminded about his long meetings with apple-cheeked Maude the milkmaid at the back of my stables? She certainly came out more red-faced than she went in! He says I lie; the prioress would know the difference between me and Benjamin. He's wrong. Lust, like love, blinds the eyes, otherwise red-cheeked Maude would never let him within a mile of her! Ah, good, he has stopped shaking his head. So, back to the prioress . . .]

'Oh, sweet heaven! Oh, sweet heaven!' she cried as I entered her, my weapon as hard as any spear. Oh, what a night! Two, three times, I had my pleasure of her before kissing her roundly on the cheeks, slapping her on the bottom and whispering a fond adieu.

Next morning a heavy mist had blown in, covering the land with a blanket of gloomy silence. It swirled amongst the convent buildings, dulling the spirit - even mine after such a riotous night. I rose early, pleasantly tired. My master was still asleep, as he had been the previous evening when I returned from my love tryst. I dressed quickly and hurried across the courtyard to the refectory. This was reached by outside stairs and some of the nuns, ever hungry, were already filing in. I heard one comment tossed back.

'Such a gargoyle! A veritable troll of a man!'

I wondered who this unbecoming fellow was and hung my head in embarrassment when another replied.

'Yes, his name is Roger. Isn't it strange such a handsome master employs such an ugly servant!'

Of course, nuns have no finesse, no real appreciation of the true beauty which can lie beneath the surface. I took my place in the refectory at a separate table near the dais and watched the lady prioress sweep in. Her face was pale, her eyes dark-rimmed, and this assuaged some of my pain at the nun's silly chatter. Master Benjamin joined me, gaily prophesying that the mist would soon lift and it would be another splendid day. Out of the corner of my eye I noticed how the prioress kept sending him frowning glances at being ignored, interspersed with coy smiles in an attempt to provoke him into some loving conspiracy about the events of the previous night.

Her love sighs were suddenly interrupted by a commotion outside, the screams of women mingling with the deep gruff shouts of some of the convent's labourers and porters. The prioress, lips pursed tight, hurried out and we followed. In the courtyard below, surrounded by nuns and other members of the convent, sat a strange-looking man on horseback. His hair was dyed orange and his white face made ghostly by his dyed russet beard. He wore a cap of rabbit skin and a dirty moleskin jerkin to which small bells had been sewn. The prioress muttered he was a pedlar, but the real source of the commotion was the corpse slumped across the fellow's sumpter pony. As Benjamin and I followed the prioress down, the pedlar shouted in a tongue I could not understand.

'What's he saying?' Benjamin asked.

'He found the corpse,' she replied archly over her shoulder, 'a few hours' journey from the convent.'

Benjamin went across and pulled back the dead man's head. I glimpsed sandy hair, a white-grey face, glazed open eyes and slack jaw. What really drew my attention, however, was the ugly, purple-red gash which ran from ear to ear. The prioress chatted to the pedlar in a strange tongue.

'It may be the man you've been waiting for, Master Benjamin,' she called across. 'John Irvine.'

The prioress instructed the porter to take the body into the nearby infirmary, ordered the crowd to disperse and asked one of the sisters to extend hospitality to the pedlar. Inside the low ceilinged, lime-washed sick room the corpse was laid on a straw-covered bed. He had been a young man, quite personable until someone slashed his throat. Benjamin stared as if the victim had been well known to him. We noticed the man's wallet had been cut away from the belt round his waist.

'Robbers!' the lady prioress murmured. 'The roads are plagued with them. The pedlar found the corpse hidden under some bushes.'

I knelt down and went through the dead man's clothing. Sure enough I found what I was looking for: a concealed pocket inside the quilted jerkin. This contained cunningly inlaid pouches holding a little gold and some silver (which I pocketed to have Masses said for the poor man's soul), and a small roll of parchment. On top of this was scrawled the man's name 'John Irvine' and a list of victuals and wine bought from his own pocket at a tavern called the Sea Barque near the Town Wall in Leicester. I walked back to Master Benjamin.

'It is Irvine,' I said.

'Then God rest his soul!' he answered. 'Roger, we have no need to delay here further. We must hasten back to Royston.'

Behind us, the lady prioress gasped.