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

by Alanna Knight

  Janet, however, remained untroubled by the passing years. She was as lissom as a girl, while her contemporaries were already old past man's desire and firmly laid this strange, unnatural pairing of youth and age at the door of noxious spells and revolting potions.

  'Will ye not be seated, man,’ said Bothwell sharply as Eildor's hovering brought further cause for offence, making him aware of the physical disadvantage of being several inches shorter.

  Eildor glanced at Janet, who inclined her head in approval. Taking his seat, he stretched out long legs, so much at home that Bothwell seethed inwardly. There was nothing deferential about this servant, he thought, with new stirrings of jealousy. After all, he was not, and he knew it, the only man to occupy Janet's bed. Loving one another did not preclude more fleeting amours.

  Bothwell, with a wife to love, honour and obey, was in no position to make accusations, nor was he fool enough to air his suspicions of Eildor. Any such outbursts, he knew, would be met by a gentle smile. No denial, of course, just a look that said, 'Accept my life as I accept yours, without question, and all will remain well between us.' For both knew that although physical love might not last a lifetime, they had something stronger, a bond to survive transient sexual encounters, the lust of an hour.

  'What think ye, Tam?' Janet turned to the steward, her eager expression arousing yet further annoyance in her lover.

  Eildor rubbed his chin thoughtfully. 'My first feeling, madam, is that the lady might well have been the intended victim, rather than my Lord Bothwell,’ he said.

  'What mean ye by that?' demanded Bothwell sharply.

  Eildor shrugged. 'The circumstances, my Lord. He talked of her jewels.' He paused significantly before adding, ‘This lad, you say, followed you from Peffermill. What business had he prowling the lanes? Did you say he was a gardener here?'

  Bothwell grimaced. 'An outdoor servant of some sort.'

  'Of what age?'

  'A well-grown fourteen, perhaps fifteen. I didna enquire as to his age.' He paused, remembering something important. 'The lad sounded educated, perhaps some laird's by-blow.'

  At this information Eildor shook his head. 'It would have served you well to find out more about him, so that we might ask him some questions.'

  Bothwell coloured angrily and Janet intervened quickly, 'Ye're suggesting, Tam, that this lady, enjoying the sunset perhaps, was set upon by this youth, intent on robbing her of her jewels?'

  Eildor nodded. 'Such an explanation would fit my Lord's description of the incident.'

  Janet's eyes widened. 'Well, Jamie, what d'ye think of that? A distinct possibility, is it no?'

  'It wouldna account for the fact that she followed me from Peffermill, knew my movements, that I walked from there each day.' Bothwell paused. That bothered him. 'Master Eildor is unaware perhaps of court matters and that she would have been unlikely to set out beyond the castle here - without her maid,' he added triumphantly, his expression scornful of such ignorance.

  'Unless she had some secret assignation,' Janet replied.

  Bothwell shrugged. He did not like the way the story was being twisted. There were more than enough conspiracies under this roof at present without some unknown woman wanting to thrust a knife in his back.

  'We have little to go on,' said Eildor, 'and, if I may be permitted to say so, my Lord, it would have helped if you had secured the dagger that he was so reluctant to part with.'

  Bothwell ignored that and appealed to Janet. 'If ye could have seen him, he was a poor specimen, pale and thin. And terrified.' He then addressed Eildor: 'I am well acquainted with cutpurses and thieves, and villains of all manner, ye've my word for that. I encounter them every day of the week, as Lieutenant of the Marches, for they appear before me in the Border assizes regularly.' Turning back to Janet again, he added, 'Ye ken I have an unfailing instinct for such cattle.' He recalled that well-bred voice. 'This lad was as different as a parish priest from a criminal.'

  Janet yawned behind her hand, her unfailing gesture of boredom. She nodded in Tam's direction, indicating that he was to retire.

  'Find this Will Fellows, Tam, and bring him to Lord Bothwell for further questions. As for the mysterious lady, she can bide a while,' she added softly to Bothwell, who could hardly wait until the door closed behind Eildor to take her in his arms.

  Leading him towards the bedchamber, unlacing her bodice, Janet smiled. 'Rest assured, dear heart, have any been so attacked it will be cried all over the court in the morning. Now let's to bed, where we have better matters to pursue.'

  When these matters had been pursued to their mutual satisfaction and bliss, they were left, as usual, with lusty appetites for less carnal fare.

  Janet had made ample provision for this and as they supped wine and dismantled a roast chicken between them, she asked casually, 'How goes the divorce, Jamie?'

  Bothwell looked at her and gulped: 'Divorce? God's love, sweetheart, I've just wed the wench.'

  Janet laughed. 'Not your divorce, Jamie - the Queen's. How do matters stand between her and Darnley?' She paused and added innocently, 'That is what all these daily councils are about, is it not?'

  'Ay, matters go well enough.' Bothwell glanced at her shrewdly, wondering how much she knew or guessed of what went on behind the closed doors of the council chamber regarding a more sinister and permanent separation than divorce. He sighed. 'She'll not consider aught that will affect her bairn's right to the throne.'

  There was more, much more, to it than that simple statement. The Conspirators had agreed that reasons would be found to divorce Darnley if Her Majesty would pardon the Earl of Morton and the other royal nobles still in exile who had murdered Riccio.

  'Ay, and there's the Queen's honour,' said Bothwell. 'Let us guide the matter among us and Your Grace shall see nothing but good and approval by Parliament,’ he said, mimicking Secretary Maitland's formal speech. Then, with a bark of laughter, he added, 'We were all perfectly aware, the Queen as well, that Darnley, at bay, isna past hurling aspersions of bastardy in the prince's direction.'

  In the small silence that followed Janet looked at him, nodded and asked softly, 'And the alternative is . . .'

  'What mean ye by that?' Bothwell demanded nervously, knowing full well. As his hand tightened on the stem of the silver goblet, he remembered how the Queen, pale and unwell, had indicated her consent. As the door closed on her, Maitland hinted at 'other means' of ridding the Queen's Grace of Darnley, adding that her half-brother Lord James Stewart, Earl of Moray, would 'look through his fingers' at any such measures.

  Watching Bothwell's face closely, Janet said, 'Come now, Jamie. We aren't deaf, we all know what is going on, and your noble lords have very loud voices which they don't attempt to keep low. And they have servants who have ears. I think even Lord Darnley might fear a dagger in his back.'

  Bothwell was intent upon a mouthful of chicken. Janet saw by the way his eyebrows came together that he wasn't prepared to confide treasonable information, even to her. With an instinct that her suspicions were right, she turned it swiftly to her own advantage.

  'I am more concerned about whose hand was on the dagger drawn on you this night.' She saw how he winced at that reminder. 'Take my advice, Jamie, talk to Tam Eildor. He'll soon solve that mystery for you.'

  Bothwell climbed back into bed, looked at her sourly and said, 'I'll find out myself. I dinna need Eildor as nursemaid.' He turned on his pillow. 'What want ye with Eildor, anyway? Ye should get rid of the man.'

  'Give me a reason!'

  Bothwell could think of none, especially as his Borderers had failed to find out anything to the man's discredit in the Eildon Hills, where Tam was a common enough name for any Christian.

  'Ye ken nothing about him, sweeting,' Bothwell implored.

  'I willna do it, Jamie,' was the sleepy but firm reply.

  'The man could be a spy.'

  'What, another? The castle's full of them.' Janet laughed mockingly. 'So what is new!'

  Chap
ter Three

  Sunday 1 December 1566. Before dawn

  Janet lay sleepless at Bothwell's side. For once it was not the healthy hearty snoring that kept her awake, but a nightmare concerning her life here in Craigmillar as wife to Sir Simon Preston. He was a cold brutal man, and despite the birth of a child, their brief unhappy marriage had ended in divorce. Created Lord Provost of Edinburgh by Queen Mary, his new wife fortunately preferred their town house near St Giles.

  When the Queen had commanded her presence at court, Janet prayed earnestly each passing day that she would be spared any embarrassing encounters with her former husband. Thankfully, it was too late for her romantic and sentimental royal mistress to harbour any ideas about reconciliation.

  With a sigh, Janet turned on her side and, longing for dawn, tried once again to court sleep and so obliterate thoughts of the mysterious attack on Jamie, sleeping like a noisy babe, and the vision of Tam Eildor.

  The events of last night had made her uneasy. Maybe Jamie was right and Tam was a spy after all. But she didn't think so, although she remained extraordinarily vague about her first encounter with him.

  There was little enough in that meeting to convince anyone of his identity, least of all herself.

  Her dogs had found him in the grounds of Branxholm Castle more dead than alive one bitter March night. Not the most propitious time for a stranger to arrive, with the nerves of everyone connected to Mary stretched to breaking point by the brutal slaying of David Riccio. Cut to collops before her eyes in Holyrood with Lord Darnley's dagger well to the fore and Lord Ruthven's pistol pressed against the Queen's stomach. Seven months pregnant and like to miscarry, but thanks to Bothwell's rescue and that cruel horseback ride to Dunbar Castle, twenty-five miles away, Mary and her unborn child survived.

  Now those closest to them walked softly, alert for further treachery, and none more than Janet as she had the stranger carried indoors. She was impressed and puzzled that he had somehow lulled the dogs, noted for their savagery and trained to kill or maim any intruder. Their ferocious barks, which she knew well indicated danger, had been changed into whimpers of terror.

  She realized the folly of taking him into her home, but she was curious and had never been known to turn a good-looking young man away from her door. Besides, barely conscious he could do her little harm. Indeed she believed it was only her knowledge of herbs and simples, termed magic by those who feared her, that kept him alive.

  Days of expert nursing followed, and the stranger eventually returned to life. When he declared himself well, Janet had remained doubtful until she looked into those strange luminous eyes under winged devil's eyebrows. She was convinced. They were not the eyes of a sick man.

  'Where are you from, sir?'

  He shook his head, like one who has just emerged from a long and desperate journey. His bewilderment seemed genuine. She was soon to discover that while her herbs had restored his body to health, they had failed to bring back any memory of his former life.

  A shrewd woman, Janet realized such claims might not be genuine. Had he, then, some ultimate motive in remaining silent?

  She often considered very thoughtfully his sole possessions. In his breeches pocket a book of sonnets with a name, his own name he thought, on the flyleaf. As for the breeches, they were of a kind she had not encountered before and so hinted at a foreign origin.

  But what puzzled and disturbed her most was that under the ragged shirt was an oval crystal stone mounted in silver. It was very old and she recognized it as a charmstone to ward off evil. A charmstone with a difference, for it had no fastening. It could not be removed or pulled over his head, the fine metal chain welded around his neck like a slave's collar.

  Tam made no move to leave Branxholm Castle and she had not the heart to cast him out, mindless and vulnerable, into the world beyond. Although the charmstone had little value, there were men out there who would cheerfully cut off his head for such a prize and the coins it might bring. In the same way robbers cut off fingers for silver rings from their victims left for dead.

  Then, as if Tam read Janet's mind and was grateful, he proceeded to make himself indispensable. She found him amazingly competent. The details of his own past might be lost, but the skills acquired in that other life were still much in evidence.

  His good looks belied him. No mincing courtier, he was extremely strong, with an air of authority that gained the other servants' respect, especially the maids, who added a few sighs and fluttering eyelids for good measure.

  His accent - well, that puzzled her. It was Scots, but not as broad as hers, or Jamie's for that matter. As if he had learned it as another language.

  Gradually friendship and trust grew between them. She discovered he was well bred, cultured, and his mind, although blank about his own life, was knowledgeable about the world of nature surrounding them.

  When she told Jamie he scowled. 'Ye're far too trusting. Ye ken nothing about him.'

  'He stays,' she said firmly, adding to herself, he has strange powers and I want to know more, I want to find out.

  Tam also lay sleepless, haunted by his own demons. The odd thing was that he spoke the truth. He was as much in the dark as Janet Beaton about the events that had deposited him in the grounds of Branxholm Castle. He had no memory beyond that familiar name on the book. The crystal charmstone must, he realized, also have some part in that previous life. But what and where had he been for upwards of thirty years, since he could only guess his age by comparison with men of similar appearance?

  His former life had been completely erased. And yet he knew it was there somewhere beyond his damaged memory. Sometimes he sat beating his forehead with his hands, desperately willing the past to return. Occasionally he was rewarded by tantalizing fragments, a half-forgotten dream from which he would awaken, certain he was on the brink of total recall. Only to curse as once more it rapidly faded.

  What tormented him most was his ability to see brief flashes of future events, as if he had already been there and witnessed them. When he tried to explain this to Janet, she shook her head.

  'Ye deal in dangerous matters, Tam.' She put a hand on his shoulder. 'A word of caution. Best keep such thoughts to yourself. Men and women have burnt for foretelling the future.'

  She soon discovered that he was good with figures too, knew about accounts. Her faithful old steward, Mark Scott, was sick and had lately taken to his bed, and as he was unlikely ever to leave it again, there was no one to manage the estate and household. A successor had to be appointed and trained, a lengthy business.

  And so Janet decided to take a chance on Tam Eildor. She was not disappointed. A few meetings at the old man's sickbed and within days he had accounts made up and settled, the household affairs regulated, servants paid - much to their astonishment - and was suggesting improvements.

  Tam liked and respected Janet, the kind of woman who, somewhere in those strange, elusive dreams, he had been used to dealing with. A woman as much out of her time as he felt he was out of his, this warrior woman who had avenged her husband's death.

  He was very impressed.

  She had been married three times. Her first husband left her a widow with a child at twenty-three, but she freely admitted that she had already taken another husband in the sight of God.

  Tam guessed at her fearsome memories of Craigmillar. With yet another child, at last released by divorce from marriage with Simon Preston, she became wife to Sir Walter Scott of Buccleuch.

  A happy marriage at last, with four more children. Buccleuch, however, was unfortunate enough to meet his hereditary enemies, the Kerrs, on the High Street in Edinburgh. They left him fatally wounded, to be finished off by the daggers of their servants.

  The Kerrs thereupon pleaded provocation and implored forgiveness from the Regent, the Queen's mother, Mary de Guise. The royal pardon did not satisfy Janet.

  At the head of two hundred Scots, she rode to the Kirk of Lowes in Yarrow, where the Laird of Cranstoun had given Kerr sa
nctuary. Finding the church door barred and bolted from within, Janet took an axe and, forcing an entry, tore her victim from the altar.

  ‘We delivered him to Border justice,' she told Tam grimly.

  Looking into her eyes, Tam thought it wiser to ask no more questions. He guessed that her reputation as a witch who could stay untouched by time and use her powers to seduce men of all ages was not based on black magic but on the stardust heaven, or the devil, thought fit to sprinkle on the very few.

  Mistress of none but the Earl of Bothwell, whom she loved and honoured, she took other men to her bed briefly as need or fancy dictated.

  So it was with Tam Eildor. He found it an enjoyable experience, but not one he cared to repeat while he was her steward. She sensed his reactions and there was a tacit understanding that their sensual pleasure in each other's bodies was not to be a regular, or, as he considered the uncertainties of what his future might hold, even an irregular occurrence.

  Bothwell was awakened by the Mass bell, which as a Protestant he could safely ignore. Asked by Janet if he had slept well, he confessed to uneasy dreams.

  'Concerning women wishing your death, no doubt,' said Janet mockingly.

  That was true.

  At his uncomfortable expression, she laughed. 'Alas, not many are as understanding of your failings as I am.' Continuing to brush her hair, she said with a coy glance, 'At least Lady Jean doesna seem to care about what she's missing.' She frowned at him. 'I've been thinking though - God be thanked ye're rid of that wretch Anna Throndsen. Remember Anna, who ye once promised to marry, forgetting of course that we were already handfasted. And ye still wear it, married or not,' she added, her smile a sweet reproach as she stretched out and touched the silver Fede betrothal ring he wore, with its bezel forming clasped hands.

  Regarding it, a little shamefaced, he said, 'It willna come off.' Then, shuffling uncomfortably, he continued briskly, 'Ye ken well the reason, sweetheart. I needed the Throndsen woman's dowry to pay my mercenaries. Black looks and whispers, dear God, a threatened mutiny on my hands. I had to find some means, any means, of paying them off. Love didna enter into it.'