The Royal Burgh

by Veerapen, Steven

  ‘God’s wounds, Danforth, is this what your friendship’s worth? I can see why you’ve been so long without one.’ Danforth drew back, stung. ‘Go your own ways, then, and what do I care for your sermons? You’re not my father, nor my brother.’ He stalked off, dragging a protesting Coureur behind him.

  Danforth watched him go, his face pale and his eyes blazing.

  Martin reached the end of the lower Hiegait and looked left and right up St Mary’s Wynd. Ahead of him lay more of the quiet, tenement houses, neglected and poor. Their thatched roofs sagged, and even in the dark some black smudges were discernible on them: the familiar indicator that they still relied on old-fashioned central hearths, despite the risks.

  Drawn by the faint sound of laughter, he turned left, in the direction of the St Mary’s Wynd Port – the exit from the burgh. Long before reaching it, he found the source of the noise: a wood-fronted tavern set back from the street, on a narrow alley of its own. The shutters were open despite the cold, flickering light and raucous laughter spilling out. Looking around for a hitching post, he found nothing but a little gate, set to the right of the tavern. He rapped on it. Nothing. He kicked it. Eventually a stable boy appeared, sullen and angry-looking.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Stable this horse. If you let any harm come to it, or let any other man take it, you’ll suffer for it.’

  ‘Aye. I’ll take the brute, you old knave.’ Old? thought Martin. He was still in his early twenties. Nevertheless, he let the boy take Coureur, who whinnied piteously at the unclean floor, saturated with what appeared to be generations of waste. More noise suddenly rang out into the night, not from the tavern this time, but from its neighbour next to the stable. It was girlish. Some steps led up to the entrance of that building, and the wooden shutters were carved with hearts. It must, thought Martin, be one of the stews, where a man might purchase the services of the poorest, lowliest women.

  Leaving them, Martin turned again to the front of the inn and tried to peer in through the windows, but it was impossible to make anything out. He jumped as the door opened and two burly, bearded men, both in their cups, reeled out. Martin searched their faces but did not recognise them. Luckily, they were too drunk to see him looking and challenge him. Instead they made for the wynd, leaning against buildings – and occasionally punching them – as they went.

  Martin turned to the door of the bar. He felt certain that John McKenzie was inside. It was better, in fact, that he was now living in such a lawless place. A tavern fight would be overlooked, if it was true that criminals had been turning up dead anyway. He need not even beg the Cardinal’s intervention to save him. Since the previous summer, he had harboured dreams of drawing McKenzie’s blood in revenge for what the physician had spilled from his sister. Visiting his mother had only reinforced his desire for hard justice. Seeing her living with only servants and vacuous women as friends made his job seem easier. His heart had begun hammering against his ribcage, as he had suspected it would. He took deep breaths, willing it to slow. With his right hand, he reached for the dirk that he kept sheathed in a short, silver scabbard – a gift from Cardinal Beaton – and took a grip of the hilt. Soon John McKenzie would lie dead – a bloody murderer slain on the floor of a tavern, un-mourned by anyone. He could feel the blood in his fingertips.

  As he made to pull out his blade and burst into the tavern, an iron grip seized his arm. Turning, he looked in to Danforth’s stony face.

  ‘What are you doing,’ hissed Martin, shaking him off. ‘I have him, I can feel it. He’ll not breath longer than tonight.’

  ‘And you would have your mother know that her son has turned killer, and is taken up for a hanging?’

  ‘You heard that old fool – the law has no concern for this place. It is likely there are deaths unreported here each week. These are not people of quality. You’ve spoiled my plans, Danforth, I was … ready.’

  Danforth looked at Martin, light playing on his face from the tavern’s windows. He suddenly realised how young he was, and thus how doubly stupid was his desire to avenge his sister. To throw away his future for vengeance. ‘Let us go back to your mother. We can make proper enquiries as to this McKenzie’s actions tomorrow, if it pleases you.’

  Martin, deflating, let the dirk slide back into its snug scabbard with a muted ting. ‘Simon, I won’t kill him. Not tonight. But in truth I want to go in here place and look upon him. I intend to do so. You can come with me, if you will, and have the proof of my pledge.’

  Sighing, Danforth released his grip, letting Martin massage his arm. ‘Where’s Woebegone? I didn’t hear you follow me.’

  ‘I left him on the Hiegait. I would not leave a pair of boots unattended in this place.’

  Together they entered the tavern and found themselves in a large, single room, open to the rafters. Opposite them lay a bar. There was no furniture, but some wooden crates dotted here and there, to do duty as either chairs or tables depending on necessity. There were no longer any customers; the loud, drunk men who had careened past Martin had been the last.

  ‘What news, fellows. Do you come from the town or without?’ The tapster had appeared behind the bar, materialising from the private room which lay beyond it. He was a jovial-looking middle-aged fellow, who would have appeared more like an overgrown baby than a man, were it not for the thatch of brown beard and moustaches.

  ‘Good evening, sir.’

  ‘What “sir” – call me Sharp.’

  ‘I am Mr Martin and this is Mr Danforth. We are gentleman of the Lord Cardinal.’

  ‘Is that so? How fares his Grace?’

  ‘Well, sir. He will not be cast down.’

  ‘Good. He’s a fine yin, one who stands firm against England. I say shame on the Hamilton boy, counterfeiting a king and arresting so great a fellow.’ Danforth felt suddenly that it might be unwise to speak. Instead he nodded, in approximation of the type of man he assumed frequented low taverns. Martin eyed him with amusement. ‘But hold on. Martin … Martin … you’re not kin to the old Frenchman Martin, as was late of the burgh?’

  ‘My father.’

  ‘Och, well that’s who you put me in mind of, sir. Your father was an ale-taster, and he never found Sharp’s tavern cheating.’ He smiled at the recollection. ‘He’s missed, son – he wasn’t like some of the fellows that think themselves gods when they’re made burgesses of a royal burgh. He knew what was what.’

  ‘That’s kind of you to say. Tell me, have you any business with a man called John McKenzie?’

  ‘The old drunk? Calls himself a doctor?’

  ‘The same.’

  ‘Aye, he drinks in here. I don’t let him stay long, mind, because he turns nasty on it. You know how men are, sir. For one man, the ale turns him into the world’s best friend. For another, it turns him into its enemy. McKenzie’s the last. In fact, your family’s is amongst the names he blames for his ill luck.’

  ‘Where does he live, do you know?’

  ‘I can’t say I do, young Martin. He falls out of this place and like as not clambers up to the house next door. It’s … well, it’s a place a fellow might put his head on a softer pillow, if you know what I mean.’ He tipped them a wink. ‘Shall I tell McKenzie when he appears that you seek business with him? Though he lost his shop, he often lets it be known that he’ll cure a headache or tell a sick man what he needs to stop up his bowels. If it’s aid you seek, though, I can’t truly recommend him. Nor do I reckon he’d want to help you.’

  ‘I would rather,’ said Martin, ‘that you said nothing to McKenzie of my name or my presence.’

  ‘I understand, sir.’ Sharp tapped the side of his nose. ‘I’m well used to confidences.’

  ‘Aye,’ said Martin, looking around the tavern. ‘I must say, Mr Sharp, you’re too fine a fellow to be keeping your shop in a place like this.’

  ‘Aye, sir, and that’s the truth.’ A faraway look came into Sharp’s eyes. ‘See when I first came to this place – before your father came to
town – the wynd was a fine street. It’s been allowed to go to hell. But,’ he brightened, ‘it’s an odd thing. I’ve been adopted by the rough trade. Feed a community of rogues ale, tend their haunt for them, and they’ll watch your back. I’m probably safer as their tapster than I were to set my face against them, as the Hiegait does.’

  ‘Honour amongst thieves,’ said Danforth under his breath.

  ‘What’s that, sir?’

  ‘Nothing. We heard there have been murders here. Some rumours of a man risen up and slaying other criminals.’

  ‘Oh aye?’

  ‘Do you know anything about them?’

  ‘I know some regulars were done in. Nothing else.’ Danforth didn’t press. The man would only seal his lips. People didn’t talk, especially not if they lived amongst the rabble. Besides, it was none of his concern. He turned to Martin.

  ‘Well, we can hardly confront this McKenzie in a stew.’

  ‘No, I suppose for tonight–’

  Before they could speak further, the door of the tavern flew open and a squat man strode in. Wearing strange clothes – a wide-necked brown doublet with full skirt, of the previous generation, and a tatty, calf-length over-gown – he drew the back of a hairy hand theatrically across his forehead.

  ‘Good fellow,’ he announced, ‘ale for all, and pray give me your ears.’ He reached under his coat, producing a large purse, and scattered money across the bar, which an eager Sharp grasped for. ‘Gentlemen, you both appear to of some distinction. I note you have a fine horse stabled without. Will you sup with me?’ Spotting the unmoved expression shared by Martin and Danforth, he went on. ‘My name is Sir Andrew Boyle, lately of service to the Earl of Argyll. I have been set upon by knaves upon the highway, my servants scattered, and lack the means to return to my great master. I crave only some little money and a horse, which shall be repaid forthwith, with an ample gratuity accrued from my own lands.’

  ‘Do you think,’ said Danforth, ‘that we floated here up the Forth?’

  ‘But sir,’ said Boyle, ‘I have proofs. I am who I say.’ Danforth made to leave, Martin following, but Boyle blocked their passage, his cragged face turned savage. Though he might only have been Danforth’s age, he was haggard, and, closer to, deep scars were discernible on his head. ‘I should advise you, sirs, as I am a great man I can be a great enemy.’

  ‘And as true gentlemen of a great man, I advise you your punishment might yet be the greater.’

  ‘You … English whoreson.’ Danforth barged passed him, scuffing the ragged coat. Martin drew a look up and down the man before following him out of the tavern and fetching his horse. He gave nothing to the truculent stable boy, Danforth noticed.

  They walked back to the Hiegait, Martin leading Coureur. ‘That creature was a poor player,’ said Martin mildly. ‘I doubt he learned his part in any liturgical play. I hope you didn’t … I mean I hope he didn’t offend you.’

  ‘I am of a Stoic nature.’

  ‘And that’s good?’

  ‘It can be. It was a poor performance. Such cozeners are rife in poor places, and they must be handled firmly, else they are apt to turn hard themselves. It was not even an original coney-catching, the hell-blasted fool. The sight of a horse,’ he added, with an admonishing look, ‘is a siren lure to them.’

  ‘Says the fellow who left his horse untended.’

  ‘In a safe part of a royal burgh.’

  Back by the market cross, lit now only by a thin circlet of moonlight, Danforth again turned to Martin. ‘And so finally we may return to the house?’

  ‘I should like a drink first.’ Danforth threw his head back in dismay, and then realised that his friend was shaking. It was not from the cold, but from nerves and tension unreleased. ‘There is an inn and tavern here. It’s a respectable place, not like the other,’ he added, catching Danforth’s exasperation. ‘Mr McTavish, I think the name is. Come.’

  The inn stood opposite the Tolbooth. They didn’t bother to trouble the stables, seeing no ostler and hearing that beasts were already present from the noises drifting from behind the place. The Hiegait was safe enough. Inside they found tables – proper, solid wooden boards – and stools. A man was cleaning a smooth, sanded bar as he hummed tunelessly. He looked up at the sound of the open door, his bald head gleaming in the candlelight. A sour-faced woman in a neat mob cap stood at the far right, arms folded. As they crossed to the bar, fresh rushes stuck to their muddy, wet boots. Danforth hissed in irritation. He hated the damned stuff, silly perfumed frippery that it was. It was impossible to walk in a room without the straw sticking to anything that touched it.

  ‘Can I help you, gentlemen,’ the proprietor asked, his voice fussy and light, his eyes drifting with distaste to Danforth’s rush-decorated boots. ‘It’s late.’

  ‘We would have a drink,’ said Martin, ‘I’m Mr Arnaud Martin, son of Philippe Martin, late a burgess of the town.’

  ‘Oh, Mr Martin, how does your mother?’

  ‘Well, thank you, sir. Have you any ale?’

  ‘Well, it’s late, sir, as I said. Oh my, very late indeed. Our guests are already abed, and we’d not want to disturb them with loud noise, would we?’ He paused, and Martin and Danforth held their peace, letting the silence of the room lend absurdity to his concerns. ‘But one small drink shouldn’t hurt, I dare say. Mistress Scott!’ His shout was barely more than a rasp. The sullen woman poured a meagre amount of flat ale into pewter mugs and passed them to her husband, who passed them to Martin and Danforth. The man resumed his humming, and Danforth recognised him as one of those fellows who does it incessantly, for reasons he had never understood. Likely he did not even notice he was doing it.

  ‘Thank you,’ said Danforth. ‘This is a fine place. Not like unto some of the taverns in this town.’

  ‘Oh, no sir, no, we’re not a tavern, no, not an alehouse. We’re an inn, sir. Young Martin, you work for the Lord Cardinal, is that right?’ Martin nodded. ‘And yourself?’ Danforth did the same, but the hairs on the back of his neck prickled. He felt a fraud, using the Cardinal’s name and fame when he and Martin were out of favour – little better than Boyle. His identity had long been predicated on being a Cardinal’s gentleman. Without that, he didn’t know what he was. ‘Though his Grace hasn’t visited us, we’ve housed many great men who have business in the castle. Oh yes, they all come here before they go up there, and they all remark favourably on our ale and our beds.’

  Martin swished around the ale in his mouth. It was tasteless. He gulped it down. ‘I can see why, sir.’ Danforth swallowed his, passing his mug back over. It left a dirty rim on the bar, at which McTavish’s eyes widened. He quickly scooped up the mug, taking Martin’s from his hand, passed them both to his Mistress Scott, who snatched them away, and then set about cleaning it. ‘Oh dear, oh dear.’

  ‘We thank you for your hospitality,’ said Danforth, bowing. Martin gave only a curt incline of his dark head as he handed over his coins.

  ‘Our pleasure, sir, all ours.’ McTavish tapped the coins on the bar. ‘You’ll tell your mother I asked after her, young Martin?’ he asked in his high, whispering voice.

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Well, good night to you, gentlemen. We’ll be locking up now.’ His humming followed them as they left.

  Out in the street, Martin spat on the ground. ‘I wish you would not,’ said Danforth huffily, taking his horse. ‘You were not kindly to that fellow.’

  ‘I don’t like him.’

  ‘Och, he seemed an honest enough man. He had the proper obeisance for the better sort, at any rate.’

  ‘And I suppose,’ said Martin, climbing up onto Coureur, ‘that as a host he provides his guests with music at no charge.’ Shaking his head and smiling, Danforth mounted his own horse and they set off for home. As they drew up before the house, Danforth turned to him.

  ‘Arnaud, I shall say nothing more of your conduct tonight, and I do not wish to sound like a schoolmaster.’

  ‘For onc
e,’ said Martin, but his smile was affected. He looked embarrassed.

  ‘Save I feel I must warn you that vengeance is a dangerous thing.’ The smile disappeared. ‘It is an ungovernable passion, that waxes and wanes like the moon, driving men to madness.’

  ‘Mon dieu, your friends the old Greeks and Romans were not so hostile to vengeance. I might not have attended one of your universities, but that much I know.’

  ‘Yes and look at what a pass they came to in the end. I tell you this as a friend, Arnaud, and because I believe – no, because I know – you to be a good Christian man. Vengeance belongs to the Lord, and when those who have wronged us slip, He shall bring doom upon them swiftly. Do not usurp God’s justice, my friend.’

  6

  Danforth’s bed was the Martin house’s best, save the marital bed still used by Alison. Whilst Martin had to make do with a cot, Danforth thus had the luxury of a good wooden frame and bolster, slotted together neatly to support a comfortable feather mattress. Though it was far from the great beds of the nobility – which were themselves little rooms walled in by thick hangings – it was still a great deal more comfortable than the sack-cloths filled with straw on which the luckier poor got to rest their bones.

  Only one thing bothered him. He had, he realised as he emptied his pack, forgotten to bring his illuminated Book of Hours. Normally it went with him everywhere. As he tried to sleep, he kept turning over his forgetfulness in his mind: was he really becoming old, as Martin so often joked? No, there had to be something else in it. Perhaps it was an ill omen – but of what? Some bad news about the Cardinal to come? Something wicked to happen in the town? Or maybe it was a good omen – maybe it signified that, had he brought it, he should have lost it, the only gift he had from his late wife. There was no sure answer, but it had, he knew, to mean something. Everything always did.