‘I am sorry,’ said Danforth, ‘but turning from Stirling will not provide a sure remedy for that. Every man in every burgh has secrets of the heart.’
‘Not of this nature.’
‘Perhaps not. Some might have worse. Yet abjuring a town because you know that some men in it have succumbed to mortal weakness shall do little good. If one, or two, or five men fell into sin here, then hundreds more have not. Think on those who strove to help your mother in her necessity – good people. Do not forget that. Do not see evil everywhere. Your family has ties yet to this place, to its churchyard.’
‘Jesus, can no man escape his past?’
‘I did,’ said Danforth, his voice a bare whisper. ‘Or, at least, I have found that it can be lived alongside, as one may live both alongside an unpleasant neighbour and a pleasant one at the same time. Madeleine Furay,’ he added, ‘brings me to another. Your young friend, the girl in the stew.’
‘Louisa?’
‘Yes. You would have taken her from that place, deposited her somewhere else like a chattel.’
‘I would have given her an opportunity to live as something better.’
‘And yet as Mistress Furay showed, a woman might find it hard.’
‘You just said that someone might escape their past, as you have.’
‘I said a man might. You know, Arnaud, I sometimes fancy that women have a sorrier lot than men. A young girl in a strange town, or village, or even country, will have little to recommend her. What might she do? Well, she must find a husband. And a girl such as this Louisa – well, if he knows about her past and takes her still, he might be as sly and wicked as Walter Furay. And if he does not know of her past, then she has deceived him into marriage, and the fault is hers.’
‘God’s wounds, Simon, you tell of a bleak world. It’s no wonder that the poor creature has lost all hope.’
‘I tell of a true world, sir. I did not say I like it. We disdain such women. They become Messalinas. If their deception runs high enough, and is then discovered, they might die for it, as Katherine Howard was killed when King Henry learned of her past and her wicked present.’
‘That girl was a young innocent, a fool,’ protested Martin. ‘You heard the stories.’ Danforth had known the young queen’s fate rankled with him. It had done so for nearly a year.
‘And for all her age, Madeleine Furay was an innocent in the eyes of your mother. I would forgive such creatures, as the Lord Jesus taught us. But I would no more marry one than you would.’
‘And yet I think,’ ventured Martin, ‘that you took that old friend of my mother’s to your heart, at least a wee bit. You’re not so hard as you like to appear, I’ve always said it. You have the same softness towards women you mock in me – you just like them older.’
‘I admit no such thing,’ Danforth said, his teeth gritting. He did not know what he felt on meeting Madeleine Furay, but it could have been no more than a passing fancy, such as any man might be given to on seeing a pretty face. ‘Save that the woman had a hard life, an unearned death, and that I pitied her as a Christian should.’
‘As you like it. Though you might think of marrying again, sir.’ Danforth did not give him a response. ‘Since you speak of marriage. Though I would suggest a lady younger than a friend of my mother’s,’ he added, a smile threatening.
They fell into silence, the only sound the distant murmur of people and the slow creaking of the scaffold carried on the breeze. The thought of marriage seemed alien to Danforth now. It had been a long time since he had had traffic with women, and still longer since he had been captivated by one. He had seldom thought of remarriage. It had become a young man’s game. His wife had departed, taking their child, and any other woman would be a pale shadow – a replacement. He would not betray her memory.
Yet he knew that was merely an excuse. He had grown used to being alone, and to having no one to trouble him. He did not want anyone to depend on him, nor for there to be anyone on whom he depended. Above all, he did not want another woman to love him, be loved by him, and pass out of the world before him. At some point, he had decided that he would be alone on his own terms and by his own design. ‘Well, shall we take our leave of this inn?’ he asked eventually.
‘With gladness.’
They settled their bill with Mr McTavish. He had ceased his humming, and embarked upon a new moody, sullen silence. He thanked them only coldly for their business, and then brought their horses around from the stable behind the building. Danforth led Woebegone onto the Hiegait, with Martin petting and soothing a grumbling Coureur.
‘And so, farewell Stirling,’ said Martin. Danforth took a long glance down the broad street, with its little shops and great houses, its market cross and its hanged men. He felt flat. He turned and gazed up the road towards the Holy Rude and, above that, the castle. It glinted in the sunlight, its own little self-enclosed world. He felt very much like a Greek, living under the cloud-soaked paradise of Olympus but fated to grope around in grubby, earthly matters. ‘There is one thing,’ Martin said, breaking up his thoughts.
‘What is that, sir?’
‘I’d like to see the house one last time. It’s probably only foolish fancy, but in case I don’t see it again, I’d like a last look.’
‘It may not please you,’ warned Danforth.
‘I have little doubt it won’t. Still, I’d like to do it.’
Danforth nodded, and then took his own last look at the corpses of Anthony Sharp and John McKenzie. He could not resist. They were indistinct – more like dolls than men. ‘Come Mistress Lot,’ he said.
22
Danforth had expected the tower house to be sepulchral, a haunting ruin devoid of life. To his surprise, it looked whole and complete, the stone walls retaining a proud, undefeated look. Only the blackened walls spoke of the great fire, and the missing roof, invisible from the ground. Danforth and Martin dismounted before it, patting and soothing the horses to keep them in place. Neither man spoke, until Martin stepped gingerly around the boggy ground in front of the steps and began clambering up. ‘Ho,’ shouted Danforth, ‘have a care. It might not be safe.’ He followed.
The door hung wide, opening onto gloom. As they stepped into it, the smell of burnt wood invaded their nostrils, drawing their hands to their faces. The place, again, looked intact but charred. Martin began moving through it. Black objects lay pell-mell about the floor, although Graeme and Gillespie had managed to recover anything valuable or undamaged. Everything was coated in a thin layer of sooty grime. The only light came from the small windows, now bare of their linen coverings. Danforth put his hand to a table, and then drew it away, his glove filthy. He followed Martin around his mother’s desiccated possessions and into the solar.
As in the hall, the walls had been stained. Any chance of recovery would require hours of scrubbing and gallons of distemper. It was difficult to imagine that the smell of burning could ever be effaced. Alison’s settle, and the cushions derided by Madeline Furay, had managed to remain whole, but they were also too dirty to ever be of use again. It was strange to think that this place had briefly been his home and had for years been home to Martin and his mother. Fire was nothing new – Danforth had seen it and its dreadful effects often enough – but there was something cruel and strange about a fire started deliberately. It was monstrous. It was the burning of Alexandria’s ancient library. It was Althaea burning the brand that fate had decided was to have kept pace with her son from birth to death. He did not speak to Martin, who was padding around. There was no sadness on his youthful features, but a kind of interested alertness.
‘It might be rebuilt,’ he said.
‘Yes,’ said Danforth.
‘I think now maybe that it should be. I confess, Simon, that I’d worried that to rebuild would be to create a counterfeit of the past.’
‘I cannot blame you the thought.’
‘Yet the future is built of the past, without being a shadow or copy of it.’
‘Suc
h is my thinking.’
Martin walked out of the solar and again picked his way around the room. He made for the stairs. ‘Stay, Arnaud – it really might be dangerous up there.’ Martin glanced at him, gave him a grin, and then bounced up anyway. Danforth did not follow him. After a few minutes, he re-emerged, his grin gone.
‘I shouldn’t hazard to go further. The floor’s weak, I think. The roof has come down about maman’s chamber. Yet I found this.’ He pitched something at Danforth, who missed it. Tutting, he bent to the floor and picked up the brass coin. ‘It was in your cloak, sir, though that’s now past its use.’ Danforth held up the coin, straining his eyes. It was unharmed. It seemed strange that a false thing, a thing found clutched in chamber of a dead woman and given her by her murderer, should have the temerity to survive a fire. He threw it amongst some wreckage and then wiped his hands on his new, old cloak. Martin came back down the stairs.
‘What should we do now?’
‘Return to Edinburgh. Find news.’ Danforth shrugged. During the previous days, he had felt active and vital again. Now he faced a return to waiting, to life standing still, without work or business to occupy his mind. Nights would not be spent making lists of items and turning things over, exploring possibilities and rejecting others, but instead filled with nothing. It was not a happy prospect. ‘At any rate, let us leave this place. We can return to your mother, tell her of all that has passed, and discover her plans.’
As they stepped out into the sunlight, they heard Woebegone and Coureur whinnying. Danforth blinked until his eyes readjusted. A third horse had joined them, and a heavyset man was climbing down. His clothes were poor, but the horse was good. ‘God’s blood,’ said Martin, ‘it’s old Fraser. I’ve been sore eager to see that bugger.’
Danforth looked down at Cardinal Beaton’s servant – the fat, unctuous man who had delivered money to him and Martin during their extended period of disfavour. Shug Fraser paused, his face red, as he looked up at the ruined house, one hand up to shield his eyes. Seeing that the two men would not condescend to step down to him, he began grumbling bitterly and puffed over. He put a foot in the bog, swore, retracted it, and then stepped around. He made no effort at haste in climbing the steps.
‘A devil of a time it has been discovering you lads,’ he wheezed. ‘I’ve been all the way into that damned town – me on his Grace’s business – only to find that you’d left. I only came here,’ he added, ‘to see the wreck, after they told me you were burned out. It’s surprised I am to see you back at such a ruin. You won’t be rebuilding this, eh? I heard you were also responsible for those two carcasses strung up by the market cross? A fine sight.’
‘What brings you, Mr Fraser? What news?’ asked Danforth, his mouth set.
‘Hail to you too, high and mighty. I come on the Cardinal’s business. I bring letters. It seems,’ he added, his own mouth curving into dislike, ‘that his Grace would speak with you gentlemen again. Perhaps my service hasn’t been good enough.’
‘Give us the letters,’ said Martin.
Fraser reached into his coat and pulled them out, thrusting them over without another word. Danforth was the first to break the seal on his and began reading aloud.
Mr Simon Danforth,
After my very hearty commendations, it is my pleasure that with all convenient speed, you shall repair unto me, notwithstanding I have toiled without your good service these past days and weeks. It is further my pleasure that you commend me unto you and return to my full and loving grace. Thus, I commit you to God's good protection. From Dalkeith, this v day of February, your very assured friend,
D. Cardinalis. St A.
‘Your very assured friend,’ repeated Danforth. His heart fluttered, but it didn’t soar or thrill as he might have expected it to. He and Martin were recalled – the Cardinal must have finally repented of his hard request and his bitter words at their refusal. They were once again Cardinal’s men. They were once again ‘very assured friends’, invited to provide ‘good service’. Life might once again resume its even, exciting tenor.
‘My letter runs on the same course,’ said Martin. ‘Sir, this is dated the fifth. It’s taken you near a week to ride from Dalkeith to Stirling?’ A shifty look passed across Fraser’s face, followed by one of truculence.
‘I wasn’t made aware that the contents of his Grace’s letter demanded speed. I was never tasked with being a common courier between you fellows and the Cardinal.’
‘What has befallen his Grace,’ asked Danforth, his mouth dry. ‘Why are we so suddenly summoned?’
‘His Grace may speak to you himself,’ said Fraser. ‘I’m not privy to the inner workings of his mind. Not now that he pulls once more on the leash of his pets. If you wish to know of his troubles, then you must away and attend on him at Dalkeith, if he remains in bondage there still.’
‘You are but a messenger,’ said Danforth, surer of himself. ‘We thank you for bringing forth his Grace’s words.’ Fraser’s face, only beginning to recover from the flush of the ride, began to darken again.
‘Peace, Mr Fraser,’ said Martin, his voice oddly oily. ‘I must echo my friend’s sentiments. We thank you heartily for your ride, and for discovering us. It was well done of you.’ He put a hand on Fraser’s broad back and began to gently steer him down the steps. ‘I’ve had a mind to speak with you for some time, sir. You see, friend Danforth here is a cautious and grave man. By God’s grace, I am neither of those things.’ As the two hovered three steps above the bog, Martin pushed hard on the small of Fraser’s back, sending the man flying from the stairs and into the mud. He landed on his knees, sending his hands out before him. For a few seconds, he crouched on all fours in the filth, stunned.
‘That’s for the destruction of Mr Danforth’s garden, you fat wretch,’ shouted Martin. ‘Now get out of here, and the Devil take you!’ Fraser turned and began to rise, his face splattered with brown.
‘What? You wicked young madman! You half-French mongrel dog! I’ll tell his Grace of this! I’ll have you punished!’
‘You’ll tell his Grace nothing, unless you wish to have your own base and wicked deeds brought before him. Get away from this place.’
Fraser stood up heavily and slopped back to his horse, still shouting oaths and curses. He climbed up, little drips of wet sludge falling from him. ‘You’ll pay for this. You’ll both of you pay for this!’
‘Here,’ shouted Martin, reaching into his cloak. ‘I thank God my cloak survived this great disaster, for how else could I return this.’ He produced a button. ‘Now you might have that ragged doublet repaired, you clatty old jake.’ He threw the button at Fraser. It bounced off his chest and fell to the ground. Fraser raised a fist to them, before tugging on his horse’s reins and cantering away from the tower house.
‘What is this, Martin,’ asked Danforth, still shocked. ‘What have you done?’
‘I found that creature’s button lying by your stable on a pile of the dung that he deposited there, the jealous rat.’
‘It might have fallen from his doublet at any time – when he visited me with the Cardinal’s purse of money!’
‘Then it should have been buried, not lying atop his work.’
‘That was wild thinking,’ said Danforth, though a little more doubtfully.
‘I think by his response I was right in my thinking. He did it, sir. Out of envy he wrought savagery upon your yard, knowing the blame would be given to anyone else – Douglas men, or townsfolk roused to rail against the English. He was always a horse’s arse. You must have witnessed it.’
‘I … I confess I have had no liking for the man,’ said Danforth. ‘Yet he was our colleague in the Cardinal’s business.’
‘Though never favoured save when we were out of favour. And then he was used to deliver us monies, like a pack horse.’
‘I cannot credit it, Arnaud. For his Grace to have such a creature in his employ. He must be told. What else might such a man do?’
‘After all
we’ve seen, it’s that you can’t credit?’
Danforth barked a shrill laugh, unable to help himself. ‘Yet you said nothing of this to me? You allowed me to think the matter of my little garden at a close, and all the time suspected Fraser had raised his hands against it?’
‘I thought I might warn him to more seemly behaviour privately,’ shrugged Martin. ‘I suspected you’d not take his guilt well.’
‘Still, sir – to throw a Cardinal’s man into the mud, as a tapster might throw a drunken fool.’
Martin shrugged. ‘I hadn’t planned it. It seemed the thing to do. If he’d caught us in the burgh, he might have got clean away with some hard words.’
Danforth began down the flight of steps, slowly shaking his head and smiling. ‘Damn you, young Martin. As I discovered a killer, you had been at labour yourself. You can let me have nothing!’ Martin followed him, both leaving behind them the smell of burning from the hulk of the tower. They approached the horses, and Danforth tickled Woebegone. Over his flank, he spotted some early violets beginning to sprout amongst the wild grass, like purple-liveried heralds announcing the coming of spring. He was forgiven, and Martin was forgiven, and once more they were to be launched into service. He ought to feel grateful, to feel a powerful sense of relief. They would be engaged once more in helping guide Scotland through stormy seas.
‘And so, we are for Dalkeith?’
‘Aye,’ said Martin. ‘Saving only that we might first intrude upon my home and mother. His Grace commands us straitly, yet I think there’re other ties that pull us. If nothing else, I don’t think we should appear before the Cardinal looking like this. We’re once more his gentlemen and must dress the part.’
They climbed onto their horses, and gently led Woebegone and Coureur on the road out of Stirling, the sun playing on their backs.
The Royal Burgh Page 25
