The White Rose murders srs-1

by Paul Doherty

  [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.

  'Don't you wish to stay, Master Benjamin?' She came closer, her skirts swaying and rustling. 'You are not happy with our hospitality?' she asked archly.

  'My Lady,' he replied, 'the food and wine were excellent.' And, spinning on his heel, he left the woman standing open-mouthed behind him. We summoned our guide, packed our saddle bags and, within the hour, had our horses saddled and ready to leave. The lady prioress, a pure wool cloak wrapped around her, came down to bid us adieu. Benjamin just smiled, raised her white fingers to his lips, kissed them daintily and, like some chivalrous knight, kicked his horse into a canter, almost knocking his would-be-love to the ground. I was less gallant. Ignoring the expression of shock on the woman's face, I stretched out my hand.

  'My Lady,' I said, 'you promised me another purse!'

  She glared at me, dug beneath her cloak and pushed a purse (much leaner than the one she had given me the night before) into my hand.

  'Pimp!' she hissed.

  'Oh, sweet heaven! Oh, sweet heaven!' I mimicked in a falsetto voice. The woman's face became pale, her eyes ever widening pools of anger. I laughed and set spurs to my horse and thundered through the convent gates as fast as a deer. I was surprised to see Benjamin keep to a swift gallop, not reining in until a good mile separated us from the convent. Eventually we stopped to walk the horses, the guide going ahead.

  'Why the haste, Master?' I asked.

  He shook his head and stared up at the sun now breaking through the blanket of mist.

  'An evil place, that convent,' he murmured.

  My stomach lurched. Did my master know?

  'An evil place,' he repeated. He stared at me. 'Irvine was probably murdered there. The lady prioress had a hand in it!'

  I gazed back at him, dumbfounded.

  'First,' Benjamin continued, 'When we arrived at Coldstream, the prioress said she had not seen Irvine.'

  'But the pedlar could have told her.'

  'How would he know? His wallet had been taken and it was you who found his concealed pocket. Before you did, the prioress called him: 'John Irvine'. So she seemed to have recognised the corpse and knew his christian name. I didn't tell her that, did you?'

  I shook my head. 'But what makes you think he was murdered in the convent?' I asked.

  'Ah, that's my second point. When I was on the parapet of the convent wall I saw fresh horse dung lying near the main gate; it was not from our mounts, but the lady prioress said no one had approached the convent.' Benjamin brought his hand up to emphasise his point. 'Did you notice the cloister garden?' he continued. The ground was covered with a fine white sand. There were traces of that on Irvine's boots. Finally, the points on his leggings had been tied up wrongly as if done by someone else in a hurry.' Benjamin squinted at me. 'I suspect poor Irvine was murdered in that convent when he loosed his trews, either to relieve himself or…' His voice faded away.

  I felt a spasm of fear and rubbed my own throat, plucking greedily at the skin. Benjamin was probably right. Irvine had been killed, not preparing for a piss but to carry out the same amorous duties I had. I silently vowed I would not be returning to Coldstream.

  'We could go back,' Benjamin muttered, as if he read my thoughts. 'But, of course,' he continued, 'that would prove nothing. The lady prioress would deny the charge, and call in the sheriff or some local justice she has in her power. Anyway,' he sighed, peering away into the mist, 'we ha
ve very little evidence.'

  'And now, Master,' I answered, 'once again we go back with our tails between our legs! Selkirk was killed before he could reveal anything. Ruthven's dead, and now Irvine.' I had a wild thought but dismissed it: Had Benjamin killed Irvine? Had he gone out one dark night and ambushed the fellow?

  'What are you thinking, Roger?'

  'I am thinking,' I lied, 'about Irvine staying at the Sea Barque in Leicester.' I took out the piece of parchment I had found on the corpse.

  'Strange,' Benjamin commented, watching me closely, 'the murderers did not find that.'

  I shrugged. 'The poor fellow had to die quickly. They took his wallet and, after that, he was crows' meat. You do realise,' I added, 'that the lady prioress may have connived at Irvine's death but the murderer must be one of our party from Royston? Only they, as well as the Lord Cardinal, knew Irvine was coming here.'

  'But who could it be? Catesby and Melford have gone to Nottingham and we can always establish what day they arrived there. I suppose someone could have come from Royston, perhaps leaving after us but passing us in the mist to plan their ambush…'

  The guide came over, shouting at us in his strange dialect. Benjamin politely asked him to wait.

  'So, Roger, you think we should go to the Sea Barque at Leicester?'

  'Yes, Master. We may find something there which could explain Irvine's death and Selkirk's death-bearing verses.'

  Chapter 6

  We bribed the guide with silver and a promise of more to take us to Leicester. A day later, we were struggling through the runnels and alleyways of that city. The good Lord knows what a dirty, loathsome task it was: the crowded houses, and the stinking sewers which smelt like a boiling cauldron in the heat of the city. At last we discovered the Sea Barque in a rundown market square just under the city walls. The houses on each side of this gloomy square were dirty and ramshackle; an old dog lay panting under the small market cross. Now and again it would rise and lick the feet of a sore-infested beggar fastened tight in the stocks. It was eventide, the market was finished and both the hucksters and their customers were sheltering under the striped canvas awnings of the small ale booths. Benjamin pointed to the Sea Barque, a narrow tenement three storeys high with a great ale stake tucked under its eaves and a gaudily painted sign hanging tipsily over the battered door. Around this entrance were a small group of tinkers and pedlars selling brightly coloured ribbons, gloves, plums and green apples. We pushed through these into the tavern whilst our guide stayed outside to hold the horses.

  The taproom of the Sea Barque was cool although musty, its tables nothing but barrels, with a few rickety stools and benches round the walls. We had been warned by a merchant on the road not to drink either the water or the muddy-coloured ales because the plague had recently been raging in the city and the streams might still be infected. My master ordered a jug of wine and questioned the slattern, a pretty, fresh-cheeked wench, who would have been quite comely if she had kept her teeth. Benjamin, courteous as ever, let her sip from his cup and thrust a penny into her small but calloused hand.

  'Child,' he remarked, 'do you remember a man called Irvine – fresh-faced, sandy-haired, perhaps secretive and sly? He talked like a Scotsman?'

  The girl looked puzzled so I repeated the description and recognition dawned in her bright blue eyes. She nodded her head vigorously and chattered gaily though I could only understand half of what she said. Apparently Irvine had been a constant patron of the place.

  'At first he came alone,' the slattern announced. 'He ate and drank generously and was well liked by the other customers, even though he was a Scotsman.' She stopped speaking and winked at my master, taking another sip from his goblet and grabbing the second penny he offered. 'But then,' she continued like a child reciting a story, 'he became secretive and withdrawn and took to meeting in a corner with a sinister-looking fellow.' She screwed up her eyes to remember. 'This stranger had dark brown hair, a patch over one eye and a large purple birth mark which stretched across his cheek.'

  'Was he English?' I asked.

  She laughed and shook her head. 'A true Scotsman. He could drink like a fish and I couldn't understand his coarse speech.'

  'And did Irvine leave anything?' my master asked.

  'Oh, no. I cleaned his room.' She looked slyly at me. 'Or, at least, I tried to.'

  'Why do you say that?' Benjamin snapped.

  'Because he left a drawing on the wall. The landlord was furious and told me to wash it off.'

  'What was it?' I asked.

  'A large bird,' she answered. 'He drew it with a piece of charcoal. A large bird with a cruel beak and a crown on its head.'

  'Like an eagle?' I queried.

  'Yes, yes,' the girl replied.

  'And Irvine's strange companion?' Benjamin asked. 'What did he do?'

  'Nothing but chatter to Irvine, then he left, and Irvine shortly afterwards.'

  We thanked the wench who could tell us nothing else. We spent some more time moving around Leicester, going from tavern to tavern trying to discover if anyone else had seen Irvine's strange companion. We met with nothing but failure. The end of the second day in the city found us faded, dirty and eager to leave.

  We spent two days travelling back to Royston with a guide who was as tired of us as we were sick of him. The manor house, despite a change in the weather, still looked grim: a gloomy, squat huddle of buildings hiding behind a cracked, moss-covered curtain wall. Melford and a group of bowmen greeted us at the gate. Above them, his feet kicking, his hose stained, face black and tongue protruding, danced one of the kitchen minions.

  'Hanged!' Melford cheerily announced. 'For stealing household goods and trying to sell them in the surrounding villages.'

  The bastard smiled evilly at me as if he would have loved to have put a noose round my neck and had me swinging on a branch of the overhanging elm tree. We hid our disgust and made our way up to the main door where the ever-benevolent Doctor Agrippa was waiting for us. Whilst grooms took our horses away, we were led into the dreary Chapter House, now made a little more comfortable with hangings and arras, cushions and chairs, from Queen Margaret's stores.

  'Irvine's news?' Agrippa demanded at once as Catesby bolted the door behind us and scrutinised the long, low-ceilinged chamber as if eavesdroppers lurked in its very shadows. He came and stood over us.

  'Irvine?' he repeated hoarsely. 'What news do you bring?'

  My master flicked the dust from his cloak. 'Sir Robert, I am dirty, tired, saddle-sore and thirsty. I would like some wine.'.

  Two goblets slopping with wine were hastily served. My master drank deeply while I studied Agrippa's cherubic face and the anxious, worried frown on Catesby's.

  'Irvine is dead,' Benjamin announced flatly.

  Catesby moaned and turned away. Agrippa fidgeted excitedly in his chair.

  'How?' he asked softly. 'How was Irvine killed?'

  'He never reached the convent,' my master lied. 'Oh, we waited for him but then a pedlar brought in his corpse. His throat had been cut from ear to ear and his wallet had been filched.' Benjamin shrugged. 'We failed.'

  'We were meant to fail!' I interrupted hoarsely. 'Irvine was ambushed. Somebody knew he was coming, and the only people who did are here in Royston Manor!'

  'What are you saying?' Catesby demanded.

  'That someone from Royston ambushed Irvine and murdered him,' I replied coolly, ignoring the rage which changed Catesby's open-faced, ploughboy looks into a mask of fury.

  'How do we know you two did not kill him?'

  'Ask our guide,' Benjamin answered. 'Ask the ladies of the convent – we were never out of their sight.'

  I remembered the long, graceful legs of the prioress wrapped firmly around me and hid my smile.

  'So,' Benjamin continued, 'where was everybody when we were visiting Coldstream?'

  'I was at Nottingham!' Catesby snapped. 'We left here the same day you did, November the eighth. Melford and I were in Nottingham on
the morning of the ninth. The Constable there will vouch for our movements.'

  'And here at Royston?'

  Agrippa never took his eyes off mine.

  'A good point, Master Shallot.' He spread his hands. 'None of us can account for our movements precisely. Carey was scouring the countryside for provisions.

  Indeed, he was away three days. Moodie was sent to Yarmouth by Her Grace the Queen.' 'And you yourself?'

  Agrippa grinned. 'Like the good doctor Scawsby, I was completing certain errands – Scawsby was buying medicines for the Queen,' he yawned, 'I, of course, for the Lord Cardinal.'

  I stared into those dark, enigmatic eyes. Was he mocking me? Had he been on the Cardinal's business or lying in ambush for Irvine? I remembered the mist-shrouded countryside and shivered. Or had he been immersed in his Black Arts, calling up a demon from hell in some lonely wood or deserted copse? But why should I suspect him? His answer was very clever: no one could really account for their movements but once again Benjamin and I had drunk deeply from the cup of failure. Catesby pulled a stool across and slumped down, burying his face in his hands.

  'Selkirk's dead!' he intoned, like a priest beginning the prayers for the dying. 'Ruthven's murdered and now Irvine!' He glanced sideways at Agrippa. 'In time, perhaps, these deaths will be avenged, but the Queen is insistent that we should meet the Scottish envoys.' He glanced at the hour candle burning on the table. 'The situation is this: the Queen fled from Scotland leaving her infant sons, James and Alexander.' He paused. 'Alexander sickened and died. The Queen has no great love for her second husband but she does for Scotland. The Scottish envoys will be led by Lord d'Aubigny, the Regent's right-hand man. The Queen's husband, Douglas, Earl of Angus, has also insisted on coming. You are to demand of them Queen Margaret's return. They should arrive at Nottingham this evening. Tomorrow you must travel there, Master Benjamin and Shallot, and this time the good doctor Agrippa will accompany you.' Catesby stared at us from red-rimmed eyes. 'This time do not fail!' he snapped. 'Now I must tell the Queen.' He rose and left, slamming the door behind him.