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

by Alanna Knight

  Truth to tell, he was in no mood this night to make love to any woman. Except, perhaps, Marie Seton. For in human nature, he knew, the unobtainable is always the most desirable.

  Chapter Eight

  Edinburgh. Saturday 7 December 1566. Morning

  Tam, riding one of Janet's horses, set off with Bothwell and his valet, 'French' Paris.

  Paris was not his real name. He was a sharp-featured lad with a knowing look whom Bothwell had acquired on his travels abroad and trusted implicitly. Paris' imagination never failed him. He could come up with an alibi for a pursuing husband or a convincing lie for a pursuing debtor, all without change of expression.

  They trotted smartly down the hill from the castle past Peffermill House, the crossroads where one way led south to Dalkeith and Bothwell's Borderlands, the other towards the city, dominated by Edinburgh Castle on its high rock.

  Bothwell and Paris occasionally exchanged surprised looks, clearly taken aback at Tam's lack of horsemanship, which he was unable to conceal.

  'God's sake, man, ye ride like a sack o' Newcastle coals,' laughed Bothwell. 'What ails ye? Is it some bodily condition?' he added with a mocking glance at Tam's behind.

  'It is not,' said Tam acidly. 'I care little for horses, that is all.' Did his wariness and lack of expertise indicate that horses had played no part in that other life?

  Bothwell's eyebrows rose in horror and he shook his head sadly. What kind of well-educated man was this? Only peasants without the price of a beast did not ride. On the Borders, bairns were put on horseback as soon as they could stand and all lads and lasses rode like centaurs. Man and his hobby (as the small tough Border breed was known) were inseparable and often the means of saving a man's life.

  Through the muddy lanes and snow-covered fields of the Pleasance they rode, towards the Flodden Gate, entering the town at the Netherbow Port.

  Pointing to the steep High Street, Bothwell said, 'Ken it as a herring's spine, wi' all the closes and wynds the wee bones, topped and tailed by the royal residences of the castle and Holyrood, wi' those o' the nobility in between.'

  At the central area around St Giles lay the heart of Edinburgh's commerce, occupied by luckenbooths - locked booths from which the merchant guilds conducted their business. On either side, walled gardens, the townhouses of noble lords separated by narrow closes or wynds where the bourgeoisie, the rich merchants, lived. Steep three-storeyed wooden houses, with balconies a hands' grasp from those opposite, thereby increasing the hazard of fire.

  With roofs straw- or heather-thatched, huddled cheek by jowl, a fire in one house would soon set the whole street ablaze. The lower half of the windows were wooden-shuttered, with round decorated holes large enough to enable occupants to thrust heads through to greet each other or take note of passers-by.

  The shrill vendors and the noxious smells grew more oppressive and Tam was thankful for one blessing on this chill winter's day. A brisk wind cleared the air more efficiently than the heavy drowsy heat of summer, when flesh and fish became less fresh and more offensive as the day progressed.

  Here they were to part, Bothwell to the apothecary and Tam to Greyfriars. As they reined in to appoint their next meeting place, a window above them opened for an instant. Neither took much notice of a face that stared down at them, hastily withdrawn, but Bothwell was never nearer death in that second before Tam rode away.

  Leaving his horse tethered to the railings, Tam wandered round Greyfriars kirkyard. Once the Franciscan priory but sacked by Reformation riots in the days of her mother's regency, four years ago the Queen had permitted the grounds to serve as a common burial place, replacing the congested 'kirkheugh' of St Giles.

  The sexton was nowhere to be seen so Tam began searching for Ben Fellows' newly dug grave. There were three that seemed of recent date by their freshly turned earth, but he had no way of identifying their occupants.

  One infant's mutilated grave drew his attention: 'Magdala, beloved daughter of—and sister—'. The names had been savagely obliterated. How cruel, he thought, for the bereaved parents.

  Footsteps announced the sexton, who wished him good-day. Informed of Tam's mission, he shook his head.

  'Fellows, you say. Ben Fellows, sir. Alas, I cannot help you there. None of that name has been laid to rest in my time. And I have been here since the first burial four years since. I would have remembered a family vault of that name. I fear your information is mistaken. However, if you would care to look at my register. . .'

  Tam followed him into the crypt attached to the church. As he suspected, the sexton was right. He had drawn yet another blank in his search. There was one other possibility.

  'Since there is no Fellows grave, the reason might be that the man I search for was unmarried. Perhaps he was interred with his niece's family, under her married name.'

  'That is true,' said the sexton. 'But the last three interments do not fit the description of an old man. There were two women. One died in childbed and one was a middle-aged wife of a lawyer. The third was an infant two years old.'

  Thanking him, Tam returned defeated to the noisy tavern at the Netherbow Port where Bothwell and Paris awaited him.

  When he heard about the failure of Tam's mission Bothwell was puzzled, but then Tam said, 'The error could have arisen with the woodcutters. Perhaps they got the name wrong. Or the name of the kirkyard.'

  However, with no information to carry the search further, mere speculation was a waste of time and Tam could hardly examine every kirkyard in Edinburgh.

  Food and ale were served to them before they set off back to Craigmillar, their return route by Holyroodhouse, as Bothwell had papers to collect for the Queen.

  Taking Paris with him, he promised to delay no more than a few moments and Tam sat on the wall in the courtyard to enjoy the warm sunshine in a sheltered spot.

  Lacking the court it was strangely peaceful. No sound of horses issued from the deer park, no dogs barking or flurry of birds rising. Once the Forest of Drumsheugh, with the lofty head of Arthur's Seat visible from its slopes, the Queen's favourite hunting ground had severe anti-poaching laws to preserve it for royal use. Four years ago she had added an artificial loch at Hunter's Bog for her courtiers' pleasure.

  As well as deer there were wild boar imported from France. They were dangerous creatures to encounter, but the Queen was a fearless rider who loved the excitement of the chase, her favourite hawk hooded on her wrist, at her side the great Irish wolfhounds who could bring down a stag with one leap to the throat.

  Tam watched Bothwell leave the palace and head in his direction. He was strangely silent and preoccupied. Perhaps because of the papers he carried or, Tam wondered, was he seeing in his mind's eye the murder of Riccio, his body buried somewhere nearby in an unmarked grave. The terrible night last March when the Queen had escaped those who wanted her death too, remembering how he had rescued her with Darnley trembling at her side. And how when they had passed by Riccio's grave she had said, 'In another year, I swear, another head will lie as low as his.'

  Was that how this pretence at divorce and separation was to end - with the planned death of Darnley and Bothwell's own elevation to the side of the Queen who loved him? Would they rule Scotland together, wisely and well?

  Was that his dream? Tam wondered, as Bothwell indicated the faster route back to Craigmillar by way of Duddingston village.

  A low-lying sunset glistened redly on the loch and at the water's edge, bending over something lying there, a small crowd gathered. At their approach, a fisherman shouted, running towards them.

  Bothwell reined in. 'What's the trouble, man?'

  'Sir, it is a body washed up, drowned in the loch, I fear.'

  'Indeed, that is unfortunate.'

  With little interest in the matter, Bothwell prepared to ride on, but the man said, 'Sir, I fear it was foul play, for he was tight wrapped in a cloak, a gentleman's cloak.'

  Bothwell dismounted with a sigh. 'I will take a look.' And to Tam: 'Bear wit
h me, I am Sheriff of Edinburgh too, for my pains, so duty calls.' He turned to Paris. 'You may need to summon the Town Constable.'

  With a strange feeling of foreboding, Tam rode down the slope with them. The body was indeed wrapped in a cloak and Bothwell swore, changing colour as he gripped Tam's arm.

  'Don't you see. For God's sake, man, that cloak. It's mine. Look at the insignia on it. It's the one I gave to the lad Will Fellows. That bitch must have killed him too.' Then, to the waiting fishermen he said, 'Let us see his face, if you please.'

  The hood was pulled aside, and Bothwell's explosion of tightly held breath told Tam what he wanted to know. The corpse was most certainly not that of Will Fellows, unless he had aged fifty years in a week.

  The face they beheld was that of an old man, white-bearded and, Tam was beginning to suspect, a corpse before he was immersed in the water of the loch.

  Bothwell stepped back and swore. 'Who can this be? What treachery is this, that he's wearing my cloak.'

  Tam said, 'May I examine him, my Lord?'

  'Do what you please,' said Bothwell angrily, 'if you think that will tell ye who stole my cloak from the lad to wrap up a corpse.'

  Tam looked at the old man's body. He was particularly interested in the thin veined legs. The left one was slightly withered, the foot twisted. He remembered the woodcutter saying, 'He had one leg shorter than the other, lame from birth, poor man, but he was strong apart from that.' Tam knew he need look no further. He drew Bothwell aside. 'I think, my lord, our search for Ben Fellows' grave is at an end. This is his body.'

  'The old woodcutter?' Bothwell stared at him. 'But you said his niece had taken him to Edinburgh for burial.'

  'He never got there. I said what I was told, what they believed had happened to him.'

  'So you think there was an accident - that the carriage overturned and the niece too is drowned?' Bothwell paused, staring at the grey waters. 'And what of the carter, the red-headed lad?' And remembering that history of thieving and villainy, he whispered, 'Dear God, did he murder her too?'

  'Maybe so,' said Tam.

  To the fishermen who were staring at them and awaiting instructions, he said, 'There is no need to summon the Town Constable. This is an old man from Craigmillar way. He died a few days ago and his body was to be taken into Edinburgh. He must have rolled off the cart and into the loch.'

  The men shook their heads and looked at Bothwell, who seized the opportunity. 'I am Sheriff of Edinburgh. This is my order, that the corpse be returned for burial at Peffermill. See to it.'

  The fishermen bowed, recognizing authority and relieved to be out of an unpleasant situation with a hangman's rope at the end of it. If it was murder and no likelier suspect could be found than the men who had found the body, then in the interests of a speedy solution by the authorities they might find themselves arrested and accused.

  'The man died of natural causes according to this gentleman, who is the Queen's physician,' said Bothwell, pointing to Tam. 'As he said, the man was dead before he fell into the loch. The matter will soon be sorted out. An accident with the cart, I fear.'

  Tam stared at him. It sounded very lame to him and he was taken aback at this new description of himself and how easily he saw himself fitting into the role. Was this a link in his missing memory? With a sudden rush of excitement, he wondered if he had been a physician. Was that it?

  Bothwell rode beside him down the twisting road. 'So, Eildor, we have our answer. The red-headed Crozer murdered the woodcutter's niece, robbed her and tipped her with the old man's corpse into the loch.'

  Eildor shook his head, but said nothing.

  Bothwell frowned and demanded, 'So what do you think happened?'

  'I can only tell you what I suspect, my Lord.'

  'And that is?' said Bothwell impatiently.

  'The dutiful niece who came for Ben Fellows' body was no kin to him. She was already in mourning. That puzzled me at the time.'

  'That surely is natural.'

  'Not if he had only been dead a few hours. How could she have received that news in Edinburgh and acquired mourning veils and hired a carter - from Niddrie - to come out and collect his body? It just isn't possible.' He paused a moment before adding, 'This lady, this dutiful niece, is, I suspect, none other than the one who attacked you on the road to the castle.'

  Bothwell paled visibly then he gave a great shout of laughter. 'God's sake, Eildor, if the carter murdered that bitch, then I owe him a debt of gratitude for ridding me of her.'

  Eildor shook his head. 'Alas, my Lord, I can appreciate your feelings, but I fear it is not as simple as that. Think of the cloak. A corpse wrapped in a valuable cloak, my Lord? That does not make sense.'

  ‘And why not?'

  'Because, my Lord, your cloak would be of considerable value to the carter. Men have been murdered for much less, for a few coins, in these hard times. If our carter had murdered the old man's niece, then he would most certainly have stripped both of them of all their valuables - including their clothes - before throwing them into the loch.'

  Bothwell heaved a sigh of disappointment. 'So how do you account for all this?'

  'Somehow this woman acquired the cloak you gave to Will Fellows. She wrapped it round the old man and bribed the carter to tip him into the loch.'

  'But why on earth, in God's name, should she want an old man's corpse?'

  'Because, my Lord, she thought and hoped that it would sink to the bottom of the loch. When and if his body was recovered, the fish would have got at it. It would be beyond recognition.'

  'But why the cloak, God's sake - my cloak?'

  'Don't you see, my Lord, the cloak with your insignia might hopefully be identified and returned to one of your servants. When you heard about it you would believe that, having given it to young Will, it was his body in the loch.'

  He paused to let that also sink in. And as its full significance reached Bothwell, he changed colour.

  'You mean - you mean,' he whispered, 'that this bitch wanted rid of Will Fellows too.'

  Tam nodded, but he thought, No, not quite. She wanted Bothwell to believe that Will Fellows was dead. Somewhere the lad was still alive and somehow he had to find him, for he and the missing dagger that belonged to Anna Throndsen, were the keys to this mystery.

  As for the red-headed carter, he did not greatly fancy tracking him down. One of a cutthroat fraternity who accepted bribes to rob or kill without question, he was unlikely to know the real identity of the old woodcutter's wealthy Edinburgh niece.

  Tam realized the necessity of caution. Too many questions and he was likely to end up with his

  own throat cut. He would consider things carefully tomorrow.

  Earlier that day in Edinburgh . . .

  Walter Pax, advocate and spy in the pay of Lord Thomas Randolph, English secret agent, observed one of his apprentices pause in his labours. The youth was watching my Lord Bothwell, his servant and an unknown man of imposing appearance pass under the window.

  Pax too had a special interest in Lord Bothwell, whose every movement, as well as those of Mary of Scotland, was of great interest and concern to the Queen's cousin, Elizabeth of England.

  Turning, he looked with great satisfaction at the scene in the room behind him, where his little band of scribes were at work industriously and most carefully copying documents to be forwarded to his master and thence to England.

  There were several young lads, mostly apprentices to the guilds, eager to earn a few extra coins for their work. But for security's sake, none was allowed to read or copy a complete document. Pages were withdrawn, and many were coded, given at random to each, so that the vitally important matters remained secret.

  This new lad, Ned, who stood by the window was different, brighter than the rest, with a remarkable hand. His writing and copying far outshone all the others.

  Pax had the satisfaction of recognizing an expert forger in the making and one who could copy any text presented to him so perfectly that ev
en the Queen herself would not notice the difference.

  Ned would go far, for he was quiet and sober and of good family. His father had been a lawyer in Musselburgh, lately deceased, and the lad cared most dutifully for his sick mother and several younger siblings. When he had threatened to leave his employment because of this commitment, to take some work on a farm nearer home, as Pax confided to Lord Randolph, he was immediately offered the use of one of Pax's fine horses so that he might visit his family regularly.

  Clever natural forgers were hard to come by and Pax did not want to lose this valuable asset, sure that Lord Randolph and his royal mistress might have a future for young Ned. Which would be greatly to his own advancement should Elizabeth's painstaking efforts to depose her rival queen succeed.

  The 'Spanish lady' had looked down on Bothwell as he paused beneath her window. She realized at that moment her power. She could have killed Bothwell then and there. With a pistol at close range she could have blown his head to Kingdom Come.

  But that was not her way. She had decided on a long, lingering end, the more painful the better, a stab wound that would keep him awake at night as the agony of his rejection had kept her.

  She was in no hurry, and anyway killing him right here would not have been wise. With the hue and cry that would have ensued once my Lord Bothwell was dead beneath the window, escape from the scene would have been difficult with only one door to the street. And she did not greatly fancy being burned. So she would wait patiently and plan with exceeding care, for other chances would certainly occur.

  She would follow her quarry to Stirling, to where he fondly imagined he would be safe. The idea made her laugh out loud and gleefully rub her fine hands together.

  Bliss to know that she had such power, the power of life and sudden death over this man who had ruined her life.