The Royal Burgh

by Veerapen, Steven

  ‘Is the black king come again?’

  ‘We’re no longer safe in our beds!’

  ‘Does the governor know what’s happenin’ to this town?’

  ‘Does the dowager know of this?’

  Danforth ignored the discordant chorus. As McTavish had said, the four baillies, Lyne, Forrester, Coulson and Morris were all gathered around something. Lyne and Coulson spotted them first, and stood back, revealing a scarred head on one side of the group and cheap boots on the other. Seeing his fellows move, Morris turned up his shaggy head.

  ‘Danforth and Martin. A murder again draws you to us.’

  ‘Performed by the same hand, do you suppose, Mr Morris?’ Morris only gave him an unemotional shrug.

  ‘You fellows,’ said Forrester, his voice tinged with haughtiness. Danforth recalled that Forrester had been the man who fancied himself the next Provost. He could see it. ‘We all wish this matter dealt with immediately – far more immediately than that other.’ He fixed Danforth and then Martin with admonitory looks. Martin met his with an insolent half-smile. ‘Mr Danforth, you profess some understanding of the wreckage of corpses. Look upon him.’ At Forrester’s gesture, the baillies stepped back.

  The dead man was Andrew Boyle, the knave who had tried to cozen them. ‘You wish me to examine this creature before such a company?’ asked Danforth, jutting his chin towards the huddles of people who were edging as close as possible. Forrester nodded at Morris, who turned to bellow at them.

  ‘Get back, all of you, or you’ll be in the stocks. Get about your business!’ The crowd acceded to the demand by retreating a few steps. Danforth shook his head slowly, turning back to the body and slipping to one knee.

  Boyle’s eyes were open, and a thin trickle of blood ran from his nose – blunt and twisted from repeated breakings – to his lips. His hair was cropped short, as it had been on their previous meetings, and was criss-crossed by old scars. The man appeared to have spent his life on the end of violent beatings. Danforth bent the head to one side, where a deep wound – a new wound – had been gouged. The smell of smoke wafted up from the old clothing. ‘This man,’ he said, ‘called himself Andrew Boyle.’

  ‘We know of him,’ said Morris. ‘A common cozener. As I said, sir, they’ll kill themselves off.’

  ‘I wish they’d do it privily and out of the burgh,’ added Forrester. ‘A firmer hand is needed.’

  ‘He was knocked about the pate,’ said Danforth. He let the man’s head return its dead gaze to the uncaring grey sky. He then ran his fingers over the doublet, jerking his hand away at the stickiness. ‘Yes, he has been stabbed, and a good number of times. Someone wished this man dead.’

  ‘We all wished him dead,’ added Morris. Danforth did not turn to him. ‘You have told us little we don’t know, sir.’

  ‘There is no great pool of blood, despite his wounds. I think he was killed elsewhere and dragged here.’ Danforth looked at the street. The faint trails of dragging feet and footsteps were visible in the sludge. They came from St Mary’s Wynd.

  Boyle’s ragged old over-gown was splayed around him like angel wings. Danforth ran his hands under it, feeling around. Eventually he found the pocket and closed his fingers around something both soft and hard. He pulled out the purse of money and passed it to Martin. ‘Open it, Arnaud.’

  Martin pulled on the little string and let the coins fall into a cupped hand. They glinted briefly in the morning light, the bright, semi-golden colour of highly-polished brass shining amongst the duller, worn real ones. ‘Jesus, Simon, these are just like that found near Mistress Furay.’ He jiggled them in his palm, then poured them back into their purse and handed it to Danforth.

  ‘I suspected it might be so. We now know with whom our counterfeiter had traffic: he passed his false coins to the lowest of the low creatures of the burgh, that they might use them for wicked purpose, in the pursuit of their cozening performance. A detestable thing.’

  ‘You found a coin upon the Furay whore?’ asked Morris, his voice low.

  ‘Who said,’ asked Danforth, ‘that the woman was a whore?’ Before Morris could speak further, young Lyne, the fairest of the baillies spoke up.

  ‘Yet, sirs, I see what has befallen. This fellow killed Madeleine Furay and left this coin you speak of, and in vengeance her husband has discovered the crime and slew his wife’s killer.’ He flashed a golden grin, his chest popping with pride.

  ‘I think not,’ said Danforth.

  ‘Mr Furay couldn’t discover his own pisspot with a star to guide him,’ added Martin.

  ‘Stay, Arnaud. No, Mr … Lyne, is it?’

  ‘Aye.’ The chest had fallen.

  ‘No, Mr Lyne, that was not the way of it. Yet now I think you shall have your hangings.’

  ‘Hangings?’ asked Forrester, his mouth falling open.

  ‘Aye,’ said Danforth. He stood up, his knee cracking. ‘You might find men to convey this poor wretch’s corpse away from here. To the Tolbooth, perhaps, until he can be disposed of.’ Dumped in the Forth, thought Danforth. No ceremony. ‘He has no family?’

  ‘None who will admit to him now,’ said Forrester. ‘He is nothing. Forgotten and unwanted.’

  ‘Then I am sorry for him. Mr Forrester, perhaps you and Mr Coulson,’ said Danforth, gesturing to the silent baillie, ‘could find the Provost, and some of your men to carry the corpse. Mr Lyne, you might guard it from these damned people until the gentlemen return. Mr Morris, I would that you might accompany us down St Mary’s Wynd.’

  ‘Why should I? You fellows aren’t to be giving orders round here.’

  ‘Please, Willie,’ said Forrester, assuming his arrogant air again, ‘do as the fellow asks. If he’s wrong, then the Provost shall hear of it, and our friends’ own master shall hear of their behaviour. If he’s right, then what fear have you?’

  Morris tutted, hooking his thumbs into his belt. But he followed Danforth and Martin as they began walking, their heads bent, out of the Hiegait.

  The trio turned left and then right into the familiar vennel leading off the wynd, and bypassed Sharp’s tavern on the left, its shutters and door closed. Danforth let Martin overtake him, and the younger man skipped up the stairs to the door of The Old Nag. He battered his fists against it until it opened a fraction.

  ‘Louisa!’

  ‘You … the French Scot. What do you want?’ The girl’s voice was pitched low, and she cast nervous glances behind her.

  ‘We must have entry,’ said Martin, ‘there’s been a murder, and the fellow is lodged within this house.’

  ‘What? I ….’

  The hulking figure of Marjorie Sneddon stepped into view behind Louisa, her brow knitting as she pulled the door open another few inches. ‘Faith; what in the name of the saints is this? Och, you creatures again. I’ve nothing more …’ She trailed off in confusion, as Martin nudged the door wider to reveal Baillie Morris standing with them. ‘Will- Mr Morris,’ said Sneddon. ‘It’s been some time, sir, I–’

  ‘Wheesht, whore,’ barked Morris, the visible parts of his face turning pink. ‘We are come to take some fellows up whom these men say are ripe for hanging. You keep your fat mouth closed.’

  Sneddon stepped back, whispering something hoarsely to her husband in the hall. ‘Louisa,’ asked Martin, ‘is John McKenzie, the doctor, in this house?’

  ‘Aye, sir. In there.’ She jerked a thumb behind her, at the first door after the entrance to the hall. The three men stepped inside, as Louisa pressed herself against the painted wall and Marjorie Sneddon quickly waddled into her husband’s accounting office. ‘What is it, sir? Why is the baillie here?’ squeaked Louisa.

  ‘Shut yer mouth, whore,’ growled Morris, drawing an angry look from Martin.

  ‘Well, Arnaud,’ said Danforth, putting a hand lightly to Martin’s shoulder. ‘Take the fellow up.’

  Martin paused for a moment, his face white. He threw open the door to McKenzie’s chamber, shouting, ‘Up, dog, your crimes are discovered!�
� as he did so. He leapt into the flickering candlelight after delivering the little oration.

  The room was like the others in the stew – a cot, a table, and peeling whitewashed walls. The place reeked of stale alcohol and vomit. At the intrusion, the great, grey-brown lump on the bed shivered and shook. An older woman tumbled from beneath the sheet, and even in the dim light the bruises on her face were visible. She looked at the men without much interest, instead fixing her nightdress in a show of modesty and stepping deftly between them and out into the safety of the passage. Again, the now-reduced lumpy bedclothes moved, and were pulled back.

  John McKenzie was a disappointment. Danforth had expected some man of character and presence, some notable figure. Instead, the man lying on the bed in a dirty nightshirt was a bland and forgettable creature. His thinning hair was grey and wispy, his face thin, colourless and unremarkable, and his eyes narrow and myopic. He peered at Danforth, Martin and Morris. Then he spoke, and Danforth trembled. The man’s character lay in his rich, booming voice – the voice of a man of authority.

  ‘What is this? You burst in upon a gentleman and his woman? For shame, sir.’ The neat eyes seemed to fix on Morris’ great beard. ‘Baillie Morris?’ Morris looked away.

  ‘Your crimes are discovered,’ said Martin, ‘you are to be taken.’ His voice faltered.

  ‘John McKenzie,’ said Danforth, trying to strengthen his own tremulous bass, ‘the baillies, and now the Provost, of the royal burgh of Stirling have discovered that you have furnished a low criminal with false coins, debasing the true coinage of Her Majesty, Queen Mary. That criminal now lies slain.’

  ‘Boyle, the damned fool, slain?’ boomed McKenzie.

  ‘Aye,’ said Martin, ‘and by your hand, knave.’

  ‘You … you’re the Martin brat!’ To their surprise, McKenzie grinned. ‘You shall not be long in this burgh without your great home, proud whelp. You shall now know what it is to have everything taken from you.’

  ‘And you burnt that home, sir,’ said Danforth. ‘You need not deny it. I have seen the proofs in your own former shop. The place which you pulled down in blood was then used to pull down the home of Mistress Alison Geddes in fire. You have wreaked cruel savagery upon the clan Martin, and you shall suffer for it.’

  ‘Suffer, shall I? Oh, I know all about suffering. Did I take torches to the Martin home? No, sir, but I ken the man who did. I would not sully my hands in such endeavour, but I put a dog out to frighten you, and it seems he did better. It was worth creeping from my bed to transact business with a base fellow to drive your clan from Stirling, you half-French, pox-ridden rat. You Martins, who have brought me to this, living in a bawdy house, hated by all, and all because one of yours had not the wit to die quietly. It’s Boyle you want, you fools, for he had the last of my wealth in being induced to burn your home. I would not lower myself to such an act. I even had the wild animal return the horse I bid him steal, for I am no common thief.’ Danforth recoiled. It was strange that McKenzie should admit to his crimes, and stranger still that he should blame the dead man.

  ‘Bastard!’ shouted Martin.

  ‘You need think yourself above no man, McKenzie,’ said Danforth. ‘You are the monster, not your familiar. You are a lesser creature even than he. Your conscience shall not be salved by casting your guilt upon him.’

  ‘Conscience? What need have I for a conscience? I am only sorry now that it didn’t kill the pack of you, that this little shit might follow his chit of a sister to the grave, the–’

  McKenzie’s rant was cut off by Martin’s fist. For a moment, the man was quiet, stunned, but then he began chuckling thickly. ‘A fine fist you have. You shall want to bandage that.’

  ‘You’ll die for your crimes, McKenzie. You’ll be taken from this place and hanged by the neck,’ said Martin, flexing his hand. ‘The Devil take you.’

  ‘Then so be it. I have nothing left on this earth and look forward to oblivion. There is no Devil, you little fool. No God either.’ Danforth, Martin and Morris looked at one another, their eyes wide. A similar thought pulsed through each of them: the man had lost his mind.

  ‘A blasphemer as well as a murderer,’ said Morris. ‘Very pretty. You are hereby arrested for the murder of Andrew Boyle, late of this burgh.’

  ‘Eh? Hang me as you wish, baillie, but you will go to your own grave knowing you hanged a man innocent of that crime. I haven’t seen Boyle for some days, since I set him to work.’

  ‘There’s little point in lying,’ said Morris. ‘It won’t save you.’

  ‘I think the man speaks the truth, for once,’ said Danforth. ‘McKenzie, who killed Boyle?’

  A look of fear crept across McKenzie’s face ‘No. No. I say nothing against no man.’

  ‘You might talk in the Tolbooth,’ said Morris. ‘We have men can loosen your tongue.’

  ‘By all means, sir, take the man,’ said Danforth, ‘pull his tongue out by the root, if it pleases you. Fancies himself as a higher creature than his fellow criminals? I call that a nonsense when he will hold that tongue to protect them. Yet there is no need to mishandle him. I shall find the fellow of whom this wretch lives in fear.’

  Morris needed no more prompting. He stepped across to the cowering McKenzie and dragged him up by the underarms, his shirt falling around him like a gown. ‘No shoes, doctor? There’s a pity. It’s bitter cold outside. Perhaps the air shall have you talking, or the sharp knives as are about to pierce your pretty soft feet.’

  ‘Talk, Master Baillie? I can talk. I might say a good number of things about the men who come and go to this place. I shall go to my end and gladly and crying to the world what such men as you and your proud friends do of an evening. I –’ McKenzie’s words became a guttural cry of pain as Morris twisted his arms behind his back and began pushing him towards the door. He turned to Danforth and Martin as he went, their faces still illuminated only by guttering candlelight.

  ‘Shall you accompany me, gentleman, in delivering this thing to its doom?’

  ‘Aye,’ began Danforth.

  ‘Stay a moment,’ said Martin. ‘Simon, I should like to speak with the girl out there, with Louisa. I have no desire to hearken further unto that brute’s sharp tongue. I should like to speak with her alone.’ Danforth stood silent for a moment, and then gave a bleak smile.

  ‘As you wish, my friend. Mr Morris?’ Danforth turned to him. ‘I shall come with you and find the Provost. I might have another job for you and your men, if you should be willing.’ Morris inclined his head, disinterestedly. ‘Arnaud, speak with the wench if you must. You might meet me when you have concluded your … business.’

  ‘Here?’

  ‘Heavens above, no. I trust never again to set foot in this evil place. Meet me …’ he trailed off, thinking. ‘In the tavern next door.’

  ‘Old Sharp’s?’

  ‘Yes.’

  Danforth followed Morris as he led the protesting McKenzie out of the room and down the passage. Martin remained in the room.

  The air in McKenzie’s bedchamber was foul. Few possessions lay about – on the table were some old clothes, dirty and bedraggled. He had been a physician, a man of great standing. He had come to nothing: a filthy vagabond using whores and selling bits of counterfeit money to villains. And now he had turned atheist. Martin shivered, and then left the room, closing the door softly behind him.

  Louisa was not in the passage, but he could hear her voice drifting from the room next door – the second door after the main hall. He followed it. Inside, the girl was sitting on yet another cot, next to the young ostler who appeared to live in the stable of the neighbouring tavern. Both looked up at his approach. Each wore matching blank expressions.

  ‘Louisa? I would speak with you.’

  ‘I am looking after my young friend, sir.’

  ‘Aye, the stable lad. It’s a bad business you’re in, boy.’

  ‘Leave him alone. He has lost his best customer.’

  ‘McKenzie?’ asked Ma
rtin, aghast.

  ‘No – we heard you. Andrew Boyle has been killed. Young Robin here was his great favourite.’

  ‘I saw him just yesterday,’ said Robin. ‘He said he’d come to this place last night and promised me great riches. Lying prick. He’s gone an’ got himself killed and I shall have nothin’ by him.’ He spat on the floor. ‘I let him do whatever he wanted an’ all for nothin’.’

  ‘You should not put your trust in wicked men,’ said Martin. ‘Louisa, please speak with me. I won’t keep you long.’

  ‘Tell him to get to fuck, Louisa. We want none o’ him.’

  ‘You stay out of this, you clatty wee strumpet-boy,’ said Martin. ‘Come, Louisa, please.’

  Louisa stood up heavily, giving Robin’s arm a light squeeze before following Martin into the passage. ‘Shall we go into your … your room?’

  ‘No, sir. Speak freely with me here, if you wish.’ Martin turned and looked down the passage, towards the front door. Sneddon and McGuire still appeared to be hiding in their hall, waiting for the storm to abate. The only eyes on them were the prancing satyrs and unclothed nymphs.

  ‘Louisa, this is a dangerous place. I wish that you’d get away from here.’

  ‘What’s this,’ she asked, rolling her eyes, ‘some proposal from gent to whore?’

  ‘No, Louisa.’ Martin’s cheeks began to flush. ‘Yet I’d give you some money and send you away to some other place – by the sea, maybe. You wouldn’t have to lead such a savage life in a wicked place, but begin anew .Be saved, out of … this. I could help you.’

  ‘I’ll go nowhere.’ Louisa’s face was set.

  ‘But you can’t think well of this work. You can’t think it will end well.’

  ‘Who thinks well of work? Do you? But I understand it.’

  ‘But your hopes, your desires –’

  ‘Will you not just piss off and leave me alone? I’ve told you I’ll go nowhere. Why should I run? To be a lassie, alone and despised, in some strange land? How should I make a living? On stranger’s charity? Look, you might be kind, in your way, but are you fool enough to think everyone else out there is? Just leave me alone.’ Martin reached a hand up to Louisa’s shoulder, but she shook it off irritably. ‘I’ll scream for McGuire, for Sneddon. I’ll not take myself away to some fantasy to … what did your English friend shout? Salve your conscious. Go away and don’t come back. Please.’