Kindred Spirits: Royal Mile

by Jennifer Wilson

  Chapter Twenty

  Now alone on the Esplanade, Sir William offered Janet his arm. “Would you care for a walk, my Lady?”

  “Why, thank you, kind Sir, that would be very nice indeed. I should like to stay away from the obvious haunts today, I don’t like to be overly disturbed. I hear a rumour that the ghost-walks will be particularly lively this evening.”

  “Through a combination of the living and the dead, I imagine.” William chuckled, thinking back to Mary’s antics earlier in the year. “It is always good fun to see somebody dressed up as a ghost, clearly so keen to terrify their punters, being scared witless himself by a real ghost!”

  “Yes,” replied, Janet, smiling. “And they never quite know whether it truly was a ghost, or just another of their colleagues from another tour. I suppose it wouldn’t hurt to go and observe one or two of them later. Only observe, mind – I suspect this evening, they won’t need any extra encouragement.”

  “Well, how about we take this morning stroll, then have the day to ourselves, and I meet you back here an hour after sunset, so that we can go and see a couple of good hauntings before we retire for the evening?”

  Janet nodded at him. “That sounds perfect. Especially as Her Grace had said she won’t be needing me. Shall we?” As Janet tucked her arm snugly into the crook of William’s elbow, the pair began to make their way down the Mile, pointing out the various costumes, and the locations for the tours later that evening.

  The day passed as was to be expected. On Hallowe’en, visitors were so much more susceptible to the notion of spirits being present, and in the Prisoners of War exhibition, the ghosts of young soldiers lay in the hammocks, groaning in mock agony, and rattling the chains which lay about for effect. The looping soundtrack of the normal sound effects was drowned out by the men; the staff confused by the complaints of visitors who found the noise alarming and disconcerting, and yet, when they went to investigate, found nothing at all out of the ordinary. They simply weren’t quick enough for the ghosts, usually crafty enough to have stationed one of their gang on the door, ready to flit through the walls and warn the rest of any staff members heading their way, who could ruin their game.

  It could be hard for a lot of them. They were young men, who had passed away in often terrible circumstances, far from home, with nobody to care for them in their final few minutes. Sir William, and one or two of the other older men who had seen action at the Castle, had tried their best to be present for each of the newcomers’ arrivals, but it wasn’t always easy. Some had sustained such injuries that it was impossible for them to understand that their wounds and sufferings were now over, that severed limbs (and even heads) could be recovered, and that those who had fought side-by-side on the battlements, could now, if they chose to, continue to live side-by-side in peace, as well as war. Given the centuries through which the rocky outcrop had been fought over, there were plenty of people on both sides of every argument, but with so many years of peace behind them, most were able to rub along together, working as one, especially for such a good a cause as haunting on Hallowe’en.

  In the display around the Crown Jewels, and Stone of Destiny, spirits flashed between the displays, mere glimpses in the corner of visitors’ eyes, nobody ever quite sure what was happening. It was even more entertaining in the exhibition leading up to the display, where mannequins were posed in scenes depicting the history of Scotland’s Crown Jewels. Here, to most visitors, an extra body was easily hidden in amongst the described characters, moving ever-so-slightly, watching the line of tourists snaking through. A hand gesture here, the turn of a head there; in such an ancient building, it didn’t take much to spook visitors. Least of all today. The ghosts of the Castle were at play, and this was their day to shine.

  Holyrood, as usual, was the quieter end of the Mile, acting as a refuge for many of the calmer ghosts, less prone to haunting. But on Hallowe’en, even here, there was the odd flicker in the corner of peoples’ eyes, the occasional sixteenth-century gentleman spotted loitering in the great hall, or flitting through the walls of the Abbey. Never anything quite as obvious as up at the Castle, but even the gentlest of spirits enjoyed their fun.

  King James V looked on in silent amusement. Perched atop the tomb in the Abbey, he watched the visitors glance about them nervously; his daughter’s chambers being easily the most hauntable rooms in the Palace, and an easy target for even the laziest of ghosts. Despite its place at the centre of so much Scottish history, the Palace had never really developed a ghostly side to it, lacking the grisly tales such as the Black Dinner, or the high body-count of the Lang Siege, both enjoyed by the Castle.

  James himself opted out of the haunting, for now at any rate; he was still more an observer than a participant, but there would still be time, he was sure. David Rizzio wandered into the Abbey, and the King briefly flashed into visibility, catching the man’s eye and gesturing for David to join him. If he was going to watch scared tourists, he might as well do it in pleasant company.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  That night, any traces of differences and arguments between the Royal Mile’s mixed bag of residents were put firmly out of minds, as they all headed out on the streets, most taking advantage of the rare opportunity to show themselves to their fullest – tonight, there was no need for invisibility; compared to some costumes, they looked almost as though they weren’t even trying. The bars overflowed with parties, out to celebrate the night in the oldest parts of Edinburgh, with music blaring out of every doorway. The ghosts hardly bothered with haunting once dusk fell on Hallowe’en: the day was about haunting; the night was all about fun.

  “Boys! Come over here – I spy two young women who I’m sure would adore your attention!” Queen Mary, out on the Mile unaccompanied, beckoned to the Douglas brothers, loitering on a street corner. William, the Sixth Earl, had smartened himself up as best he could, and dragged his younger sibling out for the evening, the elder clearly on the prowl, despite his young age in modern terms. His smile widened as he spotted the girls the Queen had pointed out, and thanked her with a deep bow, before pulling his brother along by the arm.

  Mary inclined her head in return to them, before turning to find one of the senior guardsmen standing by her side.

  “Forgive me, Your Grace, but I wondered, if you were going further into town this evening, if I may accompany you?”

  “James MacDonald, you may indeed.” She smiled at the older man, glad of the sturdy company in the busy night, and together they carried on along the Mile, pointing out the various groups which had ventured out from the Castle. MacDonald’s smile could hardly fit onto his face, accompanying the queen he had fought for during the Lang Siege, and had always had a soft spot for. Suddenly aware of her eyes on his face, he struggled to calm himself. Tonight was not a night to make a fool of oneself, and risk losing such an opportunity again in the future.

  Eventually, they came upon the grate by the Tron under which their poor young piper was stranded, lamenting his fate with mournful tunes. The lad had been down there for so long that he had even forgotten his own name.

  “Come now, Boy, Happy Hallowe’en!” Mary shouted down to him, hoping he would hear her above the din. She remembered the day they had first noticed him; it had taken a couple of years for the ghosts to realise he was there. The tunnels beneath the Castle were legendary throughout Edinburgh, to the extent that most of the spiritual inhabitants had simply stopped believing in them, until the day the city council had rediscovered them, and wanted to know how far down the Mile they reached.

  All very well, until their plan involved dispatching a young boy down the dark, dank tunnels, with orders to continue playing his set of pipes, so that members of the council could follow his progress on the streets above. This had worked, up to the point that the pipes stopped, and nobody had the faintest idea what had happened. Nothing could be done to raise the boy, and in the end, they had simply resealed the tunnel, and left him to his fate. It seemingly hadn’t occurr
ed to them to send somebody more equipped down the tunnels to attempt to solve the mystery.

  John Knox had been the first to notice him, faintly aware of music as he walked past one of the manhole covers in the early hours of a quiet Sunday morning, before the rest of the city began to wake. He passed on the news to others, and by the middle of the day, a group had gathered.

  “Hello?” Sir William had called, taking charge as the Queen’s representative in her absence, much to Knox’s annoyance. “Can you hear us?”

  A pitiful voice had replied that he could hear them, but could not find any way out of his predicament, as he could travel neither forward nor back. And so he had remained, until this day, a constant presence on the Mile, playing his tunes to anyone, living or dead, who took the time to listen to him.

  Tonight, though, nobody heard him over the racket of the various parties. Concerned for him, Mary knelt down next to the grate, James MacDonald continuing to stand protectively by her side, keeping one eye on the crowds roaming the Mile. She would be visible only to other ghosts, but still, he didn’t want the Queen disturbed.

  “Boy? Are you still there? Please, please try to reach up to us.” There was no response. “Very well,” said Mary, turning to James. “Tomorrow morning, we return here, and we do something about Boy. He has been on his own too long.”

  “Very good, Your Grace, I shall alert Sir William and Lady Glamis on our return to the Castle.”

  Happy that a plan would be formed in the morning, and pleased that she had ultimately decided to leave Sir William and Janet to their own plans for the evening, Mary re-joined the festivities. She and James latched on to a group of ghosts who had emerged from Greyfriars Kirkyard to join the celebrations.

  “We have come out here, so that the Covenanters can terrify the public without bothering us this evening,” one of the gentlemen explained to the Queen in response to her query, bowing respectfully once he realised who was in their midst.

  “Very good. James, can you send a couple of your older soldiers around there, just to make sure it doesn’t get too out of hand? But please, let’s maintain a civil relationship with the Covenanters – I don’t want any further arguments between ghosts, especially not this evening. I will be there shortly, to see how things are progressing.”

  Her guard nodded in silence, and summoned a nearby soldier, literally hovering nearby, to establish whether Queen Mary would need anything. Once arranged, James continued to escort the Queen to Greyfriars, maintaining a slow pace so that their messenger could get there first.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  In Greyfriars Kirkyard, the Covenanters’ Prison could be heard before it could be seen. A few of the braver ghost tours took their customers in there all year around, but this evening, there was almost a queue of black-clad tour guides, and groups of tourists looking the perfect mix of nervous and excited. Screams rang out from behind the metal gate, being protected by one of the braver volunteers who gave their time to keep the kirkyard in good shape.

  Despite every fibre of what was left of her being crying out that it was not a good idea, Mary made her way between the gravestones, hoping against hope that it wouldn’t be as bad as it had been the previous year. There had been rumours of a heart attack among the visitors to the Prison section, in spite of the warnings that such tours were not necessarily suitable for those of a nervous disposition. Happily, as she reached the gates, she saw that most of the visitors this year seemed to be of a younger, healthier demographic, and clearly in the mood to be scared witless.

  Thank goodness, she thought, scanning the crowds, trying to spot whether she could see any troublemakers among the faces. One or two of the young men from the Castle had materialised to take part in the tour; she laughed quietly to herself as they spotted her, torn between standing to attention, or continuing in their charade. She shook her head at them, smiling, indicating that they should carry on with their fun.

  The Covenanters, however, were another matter. All these years later, they still enjoyed nothing more than terrifying visitors to their former prison, which had claimed so many of their lives. As Queen Mary had had nothing to do with their fate, they tended to show her limited respect, but still, she always chose to tread carefully in their presence, especially after rumours had reached her regarding their behaviour and attitude towards Sir Thomas on the last night of ghost tour haunting.

  As she made her way between the graves, the various residents, many now lounging, invisible, on or against their own tombstones, nodded in welcome to her. In one corner, Mary was glad to see a pair she got on well with. ‘The Wizards’, as they had become known in recent years, were loitering just outside the church’s entrance, gossiping with John Gray.

  “Well met, Wizards, I hope you are having a pleasant evening?” Mary called to them over the din as she approached.

  McGonagall and Riddell turned as one to smile at her. It was known that J K Rowling had written much of her famous Harry Potter books in Edinburgh, and that these two in particular had been inspired by their real-life counterparts within Greyfriars. The pair may not have had any connection in life, but now, in death, they had developed a bond, as fans of the series visited their graves, snapping away, some even posing with their toy wands.

  McGonagall (William in reality) was once again explaining vociferously why he should be allowed to give readings of his poetry to groups who visited their graves. Not seeing why even the arrival of Mary, Queen of Scots should interrupt him, he continued.

  “And so, you see, if they came into the graveyard, I could provide entertainments. I understand that I would not always be able to be visible – hardly ever, in fact – but does not that very fact make the whole idea far more interesting? Would you not agree, Your Grace?”

  “William, I am sure that somebody has already pointed out to you that the young fans will be here to see names on gravestones, and to imagine their hero’s creator making her way along these paths, feeling inspired to write the stories they love so much. I am not convinced, even on the tenth time of hearing, that they want to find a poet telling them of the great rail disaster on the bridge over the River Tay.”

  “But it could be educational for them. The wizard books have taught them so much, I am sure, and now, by visiting us, they must be keen to learn more about the real us.”

  “You have been told before,” interjected Riddell. “They are not here to learn about ‘the real us’. We are naught to them but names which a writer took and used in her stories. It could just as easily have been Morton that she chose, or MacKenzie, instead of either of us.”

  “Speaking of which, have you seen Morton?” asked Mary. She was always keen to know the whereabouts of the more senior noblemen in Edinburgh; it worried her when they went missing for long periods of time. James Douglas, the Fourth Earl of Morton, who had acted as one of the Regents for her son James, had some respect for her, but she still liked to know where he was. It didn’t do to have powerful men wandering the streets unnoticed.

  “Last seen in the National Museum, Your Grace, haunting his guillotine,” replied Riddell.

  Subconsciously, each of them shuddered, Mary the most visibly. She herself had suffered a terrible and messy beheading; perhaps the infamous ‘Maiden’ which Morton had introduced to their country would have eased her passing. Even so, it still made many of the ghosts nervous to be near the thing, whether they had been executed or not. Now housed within the nearby National Museum, it still attracted Morton on an unnerving number of occasions. Nobody could quite understand why he spent so much time around the device which had eventually killed him.

  “Thank you. If he returns, tell him I was asking after him – I have not managed to see him during this visit. For now, though, the Covenanters.” Leaving the small group to return to their discussions, she made her way to the far corner, the furthest point from the main entrance, easy to miss for any casual visitor, not actively looking for tales of ghostly goings-on.

  The screams
grew louder as she approached. That corner of the kirkyard had been prison to around four hundred Covenanters after the Battle of Bothwell Brig, with a total of twelve hundred held captive between there and a field just beyond the boundary. This evening, as she passed unseen through the gates, only to reappear amidst the prisoners, she counted approximately fifty making themselves known. They slipped between the closed vaults, flitting across the corners of eyes, passing through punters to send chills down spines, and a few of the braver ones were even appearing momentarily beside the tourists as they snapped away – plenty of shocks once they turned the camera to check the photograph.

  Mary paused for a moment before picking out one of the older men, still looking smart in his uniform, despite the years. Moving through the crowd, she placed a hand firmly on his shoulder. On seeing who had demanded his attention, he nodded smartly, and allowed her to lead him into one of the quieter vaults at the end of the prison.

  “I see you’re busy this evening?” she said, looking back at the crowd.

  “Yes, Madame.” The soldier gave no indication that he would give his name, or remain in her company any longer than necessary.

  Wasting no words, Mary got straight to her point. Like others, she was not keen to stay any longer than necessary. “We have received reports that things are getting a bit, how shall I put it, out of hand, and that your hauntings are once again spilling into other parts of the kirkyard. I should like this to be resolved immediately, if you please. If you could pass this instruction around the rest of your group, this will go no further.”

  “It is Hallowe’en, Your Grace. What else can you expect?”

  “I am not talking about only this evening, Sir, as well you know. I have heard stories for the last few months, and I had hoped that sending my soldiers would suffice. Clearly not.” She began to leave the vault. “I trust that this will end tonight, Sir, or I shall station guards here on constant patrol, and have them report the very worst of the trouble makers. Believe me, I still have ways of punishing those who refuse to do as they are told.”