My master touched me on the arm and took up the story.
'However, Sir Robert, on my return from Kelso I came back along the Great North Road and revisited Nottingham. Once again the Constable of the Castle confirmed the date of your arrival but, when I asked him to describe Captain Melford, the appearance of the man he depicted hardly fitted that of your now dead servant. So, I concluded Melford went to Coldstream, waited for Irvine and, with the cooperation or connivance of that bitch of a prioress, cut the poor fellow's throat before riding to join you at Nottingham Castle. No one would pay particular attention to how many servants you had or which one accompanied you when you first arrived there.'
'A chilling story,' Catesby sarcastically replied.
'You are not so clever, Catesby!' I accused. 'You should really watch your tongue. On our return from France you actually pondered the possibility that Moodie might have killed Irvine. You claimed the priest might have gone to Coldstream, but how would you know that?'
Catesby stared back, genuinely perplexed. I leaned forward.
'No one told you,' I explained in a mock whisper, 'that Irvine had been killed at Coldstream. We suspected it but the only person who would know for sure would be the murderer himself!'
'So many deaths,' Benjamin murmured. 'Such terrible murders. There were others, weren't there, Sir Robert? Like the man we met in Nottingham, Oswald the mosstrooper? Whom did you send after us there? Was it Melford or one of these hired killers?' Benjamin nodded at the two Highlanders. Catesby gnawed at his lip, his face a white mask of fury.
[Now in my travels, I have talked to several learned physicians – a rarity indeed! Nevertheless, these were wise men who had studied Avicenna, Hippocrates and Galen. I discussed with them the mind of the true murderer and all the physicians agreed some people have a fatal sickness, an evil humour in the mind which makes them kill. Indeed, such men rejoice in the murder of others and relish the death throes of their victim. They plot their crimes with great cunning, showing no remorse afterward, only a terrible anger at being discovered. In public life they act normal, appearing sane, well-educated people, but in reality they are devils incarnate. Catesby was one of these.]
He seemed to have forgotten why he was there but saw our conversation only as a game of wits which he was about to lose.
'You forget one thing,' he snapped, 'the White Rose, the conspiracy of Les Blancs Sangliers?’
'Nonsense!' Benjamin retorted. 'When Ruthven and Selkirk died it would have been easy for you or Melford to drop a white rose in their chamber. Who would notice it amidst all the confusion? You may even have placed them there before your victim died.' Benjamin stared at his would-be killer. 'Oh, I concede,' he continued, 'there are secret Yorkist covens, deluded men and women who pine for past glories, but you used their cause to mask your own evil intentions. Don't you remember our journey to Leicester?' Catesby glared at him.
'Well, Sir Robert,' Benjamin mocked, 'you really should have read your history.' He turned to me. 'Shouldn't he, Roger?'
I studied my master's face and felt the first stirrings of despair. Despite his bantering tone, I saw the fear in Benjamin's eyes and the beads of sweat rolling down the now marble-white face. I understood his glance. He was begging for more time, though God knew for what reason.
'Yes, yes, Sir Robert,' I spoke up. 'If you had read Fabyan's Chronicles you would know that after the Battle of Bosworth, Richard III's body was tossed into the horse trough outside the Blue Boar in Leicester and left there for public viewing and taunts. Later it was buried in the Lady Chapel at Greyfriars Church. Now a true Yorkist, any member of Les Blancs Sangliers, would have treated both places as shrines yet all members of the Queen's household allowed their horses to drink from that trough. Moreover, during our short stay in Leicester not one member of Queen Margaret's retinue visited Richard's tomb in Greyfriars Church. So,' I concluded, 'we began to suspect that the White Rose murders were only pawns to cover a more subtle, evil design.'
Catesby's mood changed: he stamped his spurred boot on the floor until it jingled and clapped his hands as if we had staged some enjoyable masque or a recitation of a favourite poem. He wiped his eyes on the back of his hand.
'Dear Benjamin, dear Roger,' he leaned forward, 'I thought you such fools – my only mistake. I will not make it again.'
'But we have not finished,' Benjamin spoke up. 'We have told you how these men died but not why.'
Catesby's face stiffened. 'What do you mean?'
' 'Three less than twelve should it be,' ' I chanted. 'Don't you want to know, Sir Robert? Surely the Queen, your mistress, will demand a report.'
'Her Grace has nothing to do with this!' Catesby retorted.
Benjamin smiled and shook his head. 'In these murders, Master Catesby, there were the victims, and these we have now described. There was the murderer, and we are now looking at the man responsible.'
'And what else?' Catesby snapped.
'There were those who cooperated with the murderer or provided the very reason the murders took place.'
Catesby sprang up and, bringing back his hand, slapped Benjamin across the face. My master gazed back at him.
'If I have told a lie,' Benjamin retorted, 'then prove it is a lie. But if I have spoken the truth, why did you hit me?'
'You insult the Queen!' Catesby mumbled. As he went back to his seat, the two Highlanders relaxed, their hands going away from the long stabbing knives stuck in their belts. I watched Catesby's face and knew the truth: Queen Margaret was as guilty as he. Benjamin, the left side of his face smarting red from Catesby's blow, leaned forward. I gazed around that darkened church. I felt stiff and the freezing night air was beginning to penetrate my clothes with a chill damp which made me shiver. I wondered how long this travesty could continue.
'Surely, Sir Robert,' I spoke up, 'you want to know the truth?'
Catesby's humour changed again and he smiled. 'Of course!' He picked up a wineskin from the ground beside him and offered it to Benjamin who shook his head. 'Oh, it's not poisoned!' the murderer quipped and, unstopping the neck, lifted it until the red wine poured into his mouth, spilling thin red rivers down his chin. He reseated it and tossed it to me. I needed no second bidding. A little wine can comfort the stomach; I half-emptied it in one gulp as my master began to decipher the riddle of Selkirk's poem.
Chapter 12
'The roots of this tragedy,' Benjamin began, 'go back ten years when Queen Margaret, a lusty young princess, was first married to James IV of Scotland – a prince who loved the joys of the bed chamber and had a string of mistresses to prove it; indeed, he had bastard children by at least two of his paramours.'
Catesby nodded, a faraway look in his eyes.
'Now, Margaret,' Benjamin continued, 'was joined in Scotland by yourself, the young squire Robert Catesby. You were devoted to your Queen and watched with her as James moved from one amorous exploit to another. A deep hatred was kindled in Margaret's heart, made all the more rancorous by James's open support for the Yorkist Pretenders. Margaret retaliated, or so my uncle the Lord Cardinal told me privily, by sending information to James's main rival and opponent, King Henry of England.'
'You speak the truth, Master Daunbey!'
'He does, Sir Robert!' I said, taking up the story. 'Matters came to a head when King James planned his invasion of England which culminated in the tragedy at Flodden Field. Queen Margaret and, I suspect, yourself played upon King James's fertile imagination. You plotted a number of stratagems to create unease in him and his principal commanders: the famous vision of St John where James was rebuked for his love of harlotry; the death- bearing voice, prophesying at Edinburgh Market Cross on the stroke of midnight that James and all his commanders would go down to Hades. These were planned by you, weren't they?'
Catesby smiled and stroked the side of his cheek with his hand.
