Dagger in the Crown (Tam Eildor mystery no.1)

by Alanna Knight

  ­­

  The Dagger in the Crown

  Alanna Knight

  ALANNA KNIGHT has published more than sixty novels (including sixteen in the acclaimed Inspector Faro series, and seven featuring his daughter Rose McQuinn), as well as non-fiction, true crime and several books on Robert Louis Stevenson, numerous short stories and two plays since her award-winning first book 'Legend of the Loch' in 1969. A founding member and Honorary President of the Scottish Association of Writers and of the Edinburgh Writer's Club, born and educated on Tyneside, she has two sons and two granddaughters and lives in Edinburgh.

  www.alannaknight.com

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Afterword

  Chapter One

  Saturday 20 November 1566. Early evening.

  My Lord Bothwell's mind had never been far from murder that day, but the sudden scream of mortal terror took him off-guard. As its violence shattered the blood-red calm of sunset gleaming on the castle walls, his first thought was, The Queen - the Queen is in peril!

  His hand flew to his sword. Poised and alert for instant action, he looked towards the royal apartments where Mary had sought sanctuary from Lord Darnley, a brutal husband who would stop at nothing, not even regicide, to gain the throne of Scotland. But the lords loyal to Mary stood firm and had gathered around her in Craigmillar Castle and formed the Conspirators' Bond.

  To protect the throne and the Queen's person from a husband's abuse, divorce was the matter under discussion, smoothly diplomatic and bloodless-seeming. On the surface . . .

  And with more taste for Border foray than political intriguing, the faces of his fellow conspirators flashed across Bothwell's mind - arrogant Huntly, belligerent Argyll, smooth-tongued Secretary Maitland - grim accompaniment to that second cry of terror.

  Dear God, what new devilment, unplanned, was afoot tonight? Alert to the silence that regathered around him, he was sure that it had been a woman's scream.

  His head jerked upwards again. But there were no signs or sounds issuing from the Queen's apartments and he firmly put aside contemplation of the dreadful fate that awaited those who planned treason.

  Disguise it as they would, for decency and safety's sake, a more permanent disposal of Henry Darnley was no longer a remote possibility to be toyed with. It grew daily, steadily larger, as yet unspoken but ever looming to the forefront of their minds.

  And if they should fail? Bothwell groaned inwardly. A quick end with a sword was the legacy a Borderer was born to; one the fortunate would welcome a thousand times rather than the screaming agony of the rack, confession by torture, the slow horror of hanging, drawing and quartering . . .

  Another shrill cry, a woman in peril. And closer at hand. Now there were footsteps, which had him turning swiftly, heart racing, sword drawn.

  'My Lord Bothwell - wait!'

  From the gloom of the tree-shrouded lane, a figure staggered towards him. A ragged boy, filthy-faced, his bonnet over his eyes gasped out, 'My Lord, take care. You are in grave danger.'

  The youth came nearer. Breathless, he almost fell at Bothwell's feet, clutching his left arm with a right hand covered in blood.

  "The woman, sir. She was following you. I watched her, staying close to the hedgerows, all the way from your house down yonder.'

  He pointed back to where Bothwell and his retainers were lodged in Peffermill House, invisible behind a tracery of tall winter trees and black hedges.

  'Did you not hear her cry out, my Lord? I wrested this from her,' he added proudly, and flourished a small dagger.

  French or Italian, despised as a mere toy by men, this was a weapon ladies might carry to protect themselves, one to be wielded with severely damaging and even fatal results.

  'She was but a few steps behind. You would have been taken unawares.'

  Bothwell doubted that. Normally he would have contested such a suggestion, but he had much secret matter to occupy his thoughts besides the conspiracy. Rid of the weak and treacherous Darnley, he was growing surer that nothing stood between him and marriage to the Queen.

  Discounting his mistress, Janet Beaton, of course, to whom he would always stay faithful in his fashion, there was one other impediment. His lawful wedded bride of nine months, Lady Jean Gordon, sister to one of his fellow conspirators, the powerful Earl of Huntly.

  A marriage of convenience, a political expedient urged by Mary herself and, with Lady Jean making matters difficult by pining for her lost true love, doomed to failure. But even with conjugal matters more than somewhat cool between them, there was no way on earth he could imagine the chilly but dignified Countess of Bothwell, at present in attendance on the Queen herself, creeping up a dark lane and stalking him, dagger in hand.

  He sighed. He liked a woman with spirit and, alas, had she been capable of such passion for him, their marriage might well have shown signs of success. As for other women, he was puzzled. He had not formed any recent amorous attachment. At Peffermill House his Borderers brought their women with them, but wisely none that excited Bothwell enough to risk for a brief bedding the loss of some valuable fighting man's trust and respect. And it was unbelievable that any serving-wench he tumbled would have the audacity to try to kill him. In moments of anger such threats were hurled at him, even the violence of pounding fists on his person, and clawing hands at his face. But they were to be expected when he wearied of one bed and made his way to another more enticing new love, paying for his pleasures with some jewel or pretty trinket.

  Before him his rescuer moved from one foot to the other, nursing his arm. The sunset's last red glow had faded, leaving the lad's features indistinguishable as the darkening sky overhead released its first heavy drops of rain.

  'Are ye bad hurt, lad?'

  'Nay, my Lord,' was the gasp through tightened lips. 'It is only a scratch, when I snatched the blade from her.'

  Bothwell held out his hand for the dagger. A woman's plaything, small and delicately jewelled, but deadly. He had seen one exactly like it somewhere before. If only he could remember . . .

  'Give it me!'

  But the lad shook his head, thrust it quickly behind his back. 'Nay, my Lord, this prize is mine,' he said proudly. 'I won it and it may have value.'

  'Ye say ye followed this woman. Are ye from Peffermill then?' Bothwell asked curiously.

  'Nay, my Lord. From over there.' The lad pointed in the direction of the castle gardens.

  Doubtless one of the many extra servants required during the Queen's residence, thought Bothwell. But young as he was, this one was learning fast the lessons of his elders. Never part with anything of the remotest value. Everything and every man and woman have their price.

  'Your name, lad, so that I might see ye properly rewarded for your pains.'

  Expression was lost beneath the ragged bonnet. 'I am b
ut a servant. You would not know me.'

  'And yet ye ken who I am.'

  He thought the lad smiled. 'Everyone kens my Lord Bothwell, sir,' he said, and with a slight bow turned to leave.

  And everyone kens my movements, that I walk the short distance from Peffermill, where other men might ride, thought Bothwell, as he asked, 'This woman -what manner of person was she?'

  'One of the court ladies, my Lord.'

  'And how looked she?'

  The lad considered Bothwell for a moment. 'Of your own height, sir, tall for a woman. Dark hair, but I could not be sure, she wore a cloak. Foreign-looking, Spanish or French.'

  Definitely not his wife, fair and small, thought Bothwell with a sigh of relief. The lad was proving very observant. Considering the rapidly approaching darkness, such information was surprising, but of little value. Especially as many of the Queen's French court were housed down the hill on the far side of the castle at the place they called Little France.

  'She had jewels on her, as if she had lately been in good company,' added the lad, expecting gain for his information and now eager to please.

  'Jewels, ye say?'

  'Aye, my Lord. I fancied there was the glitter of diamonds.'

  Bothwell considered him thoughtfully. 'Had ye seen her or her diamonds afore?' he demanded. The lad shrugged. 'Once, walking in the gardens with the Queen's ladies. With the Lady Marie Seton - at least I think it was she.'

  'Ye canna be sure though?'

  'Nay, my Lord. I rarely meet ladies of the royal court.' The lad sniffed, then wiped his nose and dirty face on a ragged sleeve. He was trembling, as if in a fever. Or from fear.

  'What is your name?' Bothwell asked again.

  The lad stared at him from beneath the now dripping bonnet. 'My Lord, it is Will Fellows.'

  'Good Will to ye then.' Bothwell laughed and, not unknown for his sudden outbursts of generosity towards servants, handed him the warm cloak he had thrown over his velvet doublet.

  'What is your wish, my Lord?'

  'Take it - for your trouble, lad. With my gratitude. Ye did well.'

  The astonishment with which this unexpected gift was received suggested to Bothwell that a shilling would have been adequate, a more than ample reward. Holding the cloak, Will cradled it about himself, savouring the richness and luxury of such a garment and, in wonder, stroking the woven insignia of Bothwell's coat of arms.

  'Should ye see this lady again, get a message to me by one of my servants at Peffermill, d'ye hear?' And, turning on his heel, he walked away rapidly, pausing to shout back over his shoulder, 'See that ye take care of that arm too. Don't let it go bad.'

  As darkness swallowed up his rescuer, Bothwell realized that, but for the discomfort of standing in the rain without his cloak, there were many questions for which he should have obtained answers before releasing Will Fellows. Such were his uneasy thoughts as he put his mind to something, sweeter by far than treason or an assassin's knife, that awaited him in the old west tower of the castle.

  Janet, his beloved mistress of the past eleven years, a handfasted union formed when he was nineteen and she near forty, mother of six children and already a grandmother. Janet as lover, satisfying needs bodily and spiritual, brought illusions of security to a fighting man, enforced by her reputation as the Wizard Lady of Branxholm, dealer in magic it would ill befit any to cross.

  As he entered the postern gate, Craigmillar Castle loomed far above him. Black against the sky, its battlements on fire in the last glowering splendour of a stormy sunset. Second only to Edinburgh Castle, its magnificence disguised a fortress's watchful survey south towards England, whence all dangers came. Only the Lammermuir Hills and Bothwell's fierce Borders stood between the two rival queens, Elizabeth of England and Mary of Scotland.

  A thin, high-pitched wail . . .

  Dear God, what this time?

  A cat ran across his path and did nothing for his nerves as he stared into a night that was suddenly full of unseen knives. He had been attacked, should lie dead but for Will Fellows intervention. What did it mean? Was this a personal vendetta or something more sinister - a secret conspiracy perhaps, directed against the Queen, who saw him as the one friend she could trust and whose loyalty was never in doubt?

  Her affection had extended to leaving her justice court at Jedburgh that October, defying convention to ride to Hermitage Castle, where he lay seriously wounded and like to die after a Border brawl with one of the Elliots.

  The Queen had almost died too from the folly of that wild ride. Suddenly violently ill on her return to Jedburgh, her life was despaired of, her body stiff and cold. Death seemed so imminent that her canny half-brother Moray, with an eye to bettering himself with the crown of Scotland, began to make an inventory of her jewels.

  She lay at death's door for a week and it was not until the beginning of November that she was fit to travel. Wearily, she sought sanctuary, away from Edinburgh and encounters with her impossible husband, in this peaceful castle with its health-giving fresh breezes from the River Forth.

  She was still frail, and at those council meetings with her nobles she was strangely silent and lifeless, as if she did not care one way or the other what happened, prepared to drift without protest into whatever future they planned for her.

  The Queen was firm on one thing though. Divorce was forbidden for a Catholic queen unless, as the lords argued, it could be granted on the grounds of consanguinity, for she and Darnley were step-first cousins and had married in haste and in passion, without awaiting the necessary papal dispensation. But, Mary said, if the Pope insisted that they were not legally married, their child, James, would lose his right to inherit the crown of Scotland.

  Bothwell grimaced. The Queen's visit to Hermitage had added fuel to eager rumours that she and Bothwell were lovers. Chance would be a fine thing, he thought sourly, but that meeting, with all its scurrilous rumours and false implications, had nevertheless borne its evil seed, giving substance to a dangerous dream slowly taking shape in his own mind . . .

  Chapter Two

  Saturday 20 November 1566

  Stumbling out of the darkness, Bothwell crossed the courtyard leading to Janet's apartments and climbed the spiral stair. He threw open the door of a room aglow with candlelight.

  There, by a crackling cheerful fire, stood Janet, in a dark red velvet gown which complemented her hair. She rushed over to greet him fondly, but his response was diluted on observing that she was not alone and that he had interrupted a conversation with her new steward and factor, Tam Eildor, a tall imposing figure in a furred damask gown, unfashionably beardless like Bothwell himself.

  The documents Eildor held and rustled politely hinted that estate matters were being discussed and failed to diminish Bothwell's scowl. Indifferent to his fellow men's appearance, Bothwell could not fail to be impressed by this man's latent strength and power. And these days, he thought irritably, he could always be sure to find Eildor in Janet's presence.

  'What ails ye, Jamie? Jesu, you are so wet.' Janet grimaced and moved away from him, anxiously regarding the dampened sleeves of her gown.

  'The rain began when I was near the postern gate.'

  'Without a cloak, I see, with no thought for that velvet doublet. The silver will tarnish.'

  Her admonishing tone reminded him that she had insisted on this garb. Bothwell had little taste for elegance, always being happier less formally clad in shabby but comfortable leather jack and woollen hose.

  She looked towards the steward and said, with a glimmer of satisfaction, 'Tam warned that the day would end in rain. He was right, as usual.'

  The man bowed and Bothwell glowered. Right as usual, was he?

  'Tam kens such things. I always take his warning,' said Janet with pride, making matters steadily worse.

  Bothwell's deep sigh expressed irritation and impatience. 'Madam, are we here to talk of the weather? I have just had an escape from assassination,' he added angrily.

  'Jamie, dea
r Jamie. How on earth—' Janet's eyes widened in horror, suddenly full of concern.

  'And I gave my cloak to the lad who rescued me,' said Bothwell in wounded tones.

  Janet shook her head. 'Such a gift.'

  'I was sorry for the lad. If I'd been slain such a cloak wouldna be much use to me. Besides, he deserved it for saving my life and getting a dagger-scratch on his arm for his pains.'

  'Thank God you're safe,' said Janet. 'Sit down. Tam, bring us ale.'

  'I would we could talk alone,' Bothwell whispered.

  'Nay, Jamie,' she said firmly. 'Tam has great insight and knowledge. We will take his advice and he will no doubt help us find your assassin. He has provided answers for many things that have puzzled us.'

  But Bothwell was hardly listening. As Eildor poured the ale, he treated the favoured servant to a cold appraisal. Granted the man was comely, strange looks but comely. Too dark for a Lowlander, over six feet tall, thirtyish - maybe his own age. He had a touch of finely polished steel about him and, according to Janet, a mind as sharp as a rapier. Small wonder the new steward was gaining the reputation of being Satan himself, conjured up by their mistress's occult powers.

  Such rumours had been encouraged by his unexpected appearance at Branxholm Castle, the Borders stronghold of the Scotts of Buccleuch, who were loyal to Mary, and home to Janet, the widowed Lady Buccleuch. The household was mystified, wanting answers to the questions none dared to ask, and none were satisfied with her ladyship's vague explanations about when and why he had arrived.

  As for Eildor, he had his own reasons for concern at the mention of Marie Seton and the 'Spanish lady', but with no part in the conversation now taking place between Bothwell and Janet, he was observing the lovers closely. He marvelled at colouring so similar it could have been painted by the same artist - Janet's auburn hair echoed by her lover's rough chestnut, amber eyes a foil for fox-brown. But there the likeness ended, and Eildor guessed that rough living had long ago stolen Bothwell's youth - nature's deep furrows as well as enemies' scars adding to harsh lines from nose to mouth.