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

by Alanna Knight

  Chapter Ten

  Monday 9 December 1566. Morning

  Tam was diverted and delighted at the prospect of spending a few hours in Marie's company, but he had not bargained for the small army who made up the escort: Bothwell's 'servants', steel-helmeted, stern-faced and keeping their own counsel. Allied to the watchful looks of mosstroopers, they carried an impressive armoury of weapons, suitable for all occasions, from fierce foray to ambush.

  Tam eyed them nervously, wondering if they were expecting trouble on this particular outing or if this was normal when they escorted Bothwell or those under his care.

  The need for caution became evident, however, once they left the safety of Craigmillar and the city of Edinburgh behind them. Their progress was through a wild land made more dangerous by their halting progress on inaccessible winter roads. Bothwell's mosstroopers were a daunting prospect and only by moving in the protection of armed men could travellers be safe from wolves in winter.

  And there were greater dangers as they rode past isolated camps inhabited by the broken men, thieves and cutthroats as predatory as any of the wild animals.

  The road, where it existed as other than a muddy track, seemed peaceful enough, but Tam was disappointed and frustrated at seeing little prospect of speaking to Marie alone.

  Instead he found himself riding by the side of the lovely Fleming, the subject of much scurrilous whispering for agreeing to marry a middle-aged man like the Queen's ambitious Secretary of State, Maitland of Lethington, who was devoted to her. Regardless of rumours circulating about their behaviour, particularly from the direction of John Knox, who had a very dirty mind, Fleming seemed equally entranced by her lover, even though he was old enough to be her father.

  Tam soon discovered he had an ally in Fleming. Watching him looking so hopefully in Seton's direction, and either unaware of or disregarding rules and regulations expressed by Sir Anthony Pieris, she rode ahead on several occasions and remained out of earshot, with her own maid as well as Seton's, leaving the two together.

  Tam and Seton exchanged smiling glances as Fleming looked back and kissed her fingers to them. Happy, with her own future assured, she was sentimental and romantic, prepared to be kindly disposed to others not so fortunate who, she fancied, shared her blissful state of being in love.

  But however Seton's reckless inclinations towards Tam might be interpreted by her companions, her future was not assured. She was ill-advised, blind to the folly of linking her dreams with a servant. Her brother's anger and disapproval would make it perfectly plain that under no circumstances whatever could their particular romance have a happy ending. Even if Tam had been able to offer a reliable future. Or any sort of future at all.

  Older and wiser, sadder too, Tam was aware that he brought no licence for compromise from his former life. Whatever his change in circumstances, his personality and moral outlook were unaffected.

  As for Marie, the only way loving him would end was in misery, and shame. A hastily arranged marriage with someone of her brother's choosing and God only knew what horrors for himself, for his audacity.

  And yet time mocked them, for this was a day for love. The trees cathedral-like above their heads were a fine woven tracery against a cloudless sky. Great birds, corbies and ravens, circled the ancient prehistoric mound of Tarprain Law and on the road far below them another of Bothwell's strongholds, Hailes Castle, the one-time scene of his father's wooing of Mary de Guise.

  At Tam's side Marie, as if aware of his preoccupation, enquired anxiously about his loss of memory, which concerned her deeply. But as he had no past beyond a bewildering labyrinth of dream places, he could offer no consolation of the kind she no doubt wished to hear.

  Glad to change the subject, he encouraged her to talk of her home at Seton, on the East Lothian coastline, a short distance from Craigmillar.

  'Fleming, Livingstone and I all lost grandfathers who fell at Flodden at the side of Her Grace's grandfather King James.' She sighed. 'Such a disaster for Scotland, the flower of our noble lords died on the field that day.

  ‘My family were fortunate to have heirs to carry on the name, for the Setons have always had close connections with the throne. One of my ancestors married the sister of Robert the Bruce,' she added proudly. 'Seton House is a favourite retreat of Her Grace. She and Lord Darnley spent their honeymoon with us.' She smiled sadly remembering those joyful days before the Queen's happy world collapsed and, turning to Tam, she whispered, 'I hope some day soon I will be able to show you Seton. I want you to see all the lovely things there that I treasure.'

  Tam murmured his thanks, without any hopes at all that such a privilege would ever come his way, at least not while her brother, Lord Seton, was in residence.

  A shout ahead at a distant prospect of Haddington.

  'Morham is just a short distance now,' said Marie.

  'Our ways part there, Marie.'

  'Must you leave us so soon?'

  'I fear so. The weather is with us and I hope to make Branxholm before nightfall.'

  Remote and barely visible until they left the steep hill twisting down and away from the drover's road, a tiny village clustered around Morham, a modest peel tower hardly to be classed as a castle after the grandeur of Craigmillar.

  As Tam prepared to leave the group at the gates, Fleming smiled, 'Surely you need not leave us immediately, Master Eildor. Will you not stay and make the acquaintance of the Lady Morham?'

  'Please do, Master Eildor.' This eagerly from Seton, her eyes suddenly hopeful. 'She sees few people and yearns for company.'

  ‘Indeed, she is especially fond of Lady Buccleuch. She will be eager to have news of her,’ said Fleming.

  'Before she turned lame, Lady Morham often visited Branxholm,' added Seton breathlessly.

  Tam smiled. Such an invitation was irresistible and he followed them into the courtyard, where Bothwell's men, who seemed to know their way about, headed wordlessly in the direction of the kitchens.

  The two Maries led the way through a walled garden, informing Tam that Lady Morham had been a keen gardener before her eyesight and her legs threatened to fail her.

  Through a tiny door leading along a narrow corridor to wide spiral stairs, they emerged in the main hall. Stone-flagged and raftered, it had a well-used, comfortable feeling. Chairs upholstered in Spanish leather, rugs and animal skins on the floor, tapestries hiding rough stone walls, a large table and armoire and, best of all, a roaring fire in the vast fireplace.

  Seton smiled. 'Winter and summer, it is ever thus. Lady Morham feels the cold somewhat these days.'

  From a high-backed chair, Bothwell's mother turned to greet them. She clapped her hands and a servant appeared. Food and ale were ordered.

  Obviously the two Maries were great favourites and welcome guests. Acknowledging Tam briefly, she indicated that he was dismissed.

  Seton leaned forward. 'Master Eildor is Lady Buccleuch's steward, madam. She thinks highly of him.'

  'A most valued servant,’ prompted Fleming. 'He was trusted to see us safely on our journey.'

  Lady Morham seemed impressed by the two girls' enthusiasm and this glowing reference. Studying Tam - whom she could not distinguish all that well, though she was at pains to conceal this disability - she nodded and said, 'I trust Lady Buccleuch is well.'

  Tam bowed. 'Exceeding well, madam.'

  Lady Morham's polite nod indicated dismissal as she turned eagerly to talk of preparations for Fleming's forthcoming wedding, to be celebrated on Twelfth Night in the Chapel Royal at Stirling Castle. The discussion led to suitable gowns and disappointment that Livingstone's baby girl was too young to attend as maid to the bride.

  With no part in this women's gossip, his presence by the door ignored apart from an occasional apologetic glance from Marie to indicate that he still existed, Tam wondered how soon he could take a polite departure once he had a bite to eat and drink.

  'And when are we to find you a husband, dear child?' Lady Morham asked Seton,
who blushed prettily.

  'I hope some day, madam,' she murmured.

  Lady Morham patted her hand. 'Make it soon, my dear. It is time you were wed. I shall have a word with your brother. Get him to see to it.'

  Marie darted a despairing look in Tam's direction. A look that made his heart beat the faster. But alas, his dear Seton was proving to be a poor actress, one who wore her heart not on her sleeve but in her eyes, for all the world to see.

  Was she so infatuated that she was stubbornly oblivious of the dangers of her family's disapproval for them both? The hopelessness of the situation between herself, the daughter of a powerful family of nobles and companion to the Queen of Scots, and the Branxholm Castle steward, a man of mystery whom no one knew anything about. A man who owed his present role solely to Janet Beaton's interest in him and her influence at court.

  And thinking of Janet, he turned his attention to Bothwell's mother, who, although her contemporary, looked considerably older. In youth her resemblance to her son had been marked by russet hair and fox-brown eyes. Tam knew from Janet that as Agnes Sinclair, she had married her cousin the 'Fair Earl', Patrick Hepburn, both orphaned by the Battle of Flodden. When his burning ambition led to a violent and almost insane pursuit of the Queen's mother, Mary de Guise, and an insistence that she had agreed to marry him, in readiness he divorced Agnes on the grounds of consanguinity, a useful excuse.

  Perhaps it was in the blood, thought Tam wryly. If Patrick had survived death from consumption at forty-four, would he have cheered on his son and heir, who had inherited a similar taste for a Scottish Queen?

  A door opened at the far end of the hall and a small figure appeared dressed for outdoors in a furred robe and bonnet, clutching a serving-man's hand.

  'William - is that you? Come here, dearest.'

  The boy ran to her, hitched on to her knee and looked round the company as he was solemnly introduced as her beloved grandson. Five years old, unmistakably Bothwell's son, thought Tam, for he had inherited the hair colour, the wide mouth that already held something of his father's expression.

  Only the eyes did not belong to that pattern. They were large, so grey that they looked black. Huge tragic eyes, too large for the small face, and too sad by far for a child.

  Lady Morham hugged him to her, kissed him, stroked back his hair. As the two Maries went forward and knelt beside the chair, adding their caresses, Lady Morham nodded over their heads in Tam's direction.

  'William is the sunlight in my life. He has been with me almost since his birth.'

  'When did he lose his parents, madam?' asked Tam, who knew the answer quite well.

  'Alas, his mother found it necessary to return to her own land when my son was forced into a political marriage,' she replied, sighing.

  So that was the story Lady Morham had been told, or pretended to believe, thought Tam, as she continued. 'His father does come to see him when he can be spared, but court duties make it difficult.' She smiled into space.

  Poor lady, but poorer child, Tam thought. He was angry for them both, aware of Bothwell's self-confessed indifference, with Morham but an hour's ride from Edinburgh.

  Kissing the top of William's head, Lady Morham whispered, 'But we have each other, have we not, dearest?'

  The child looked up at her, nodded solemnly, put his arms around her neck and hugged her. It was a touching moment.

  'Yes, grandmother, we have each other,' he repeated, like an oft-learned lesson.

  As he slid from her knee, she said, 'Off you go now, dear boy, it is time for your ride.'

  'Yes, grandmother.' He kissed her hand, bowed to her gravely and once more for the Maries, then with ill dignity swept aside he scampered across the floor, shouting for the servant who waited by the door.

  'What a lovely child he is,' said Seton wistfully.

  'I swear he grows each time we visit,' Fleming laughed. 'You must be so proud of him, madam.'

  All this pleased his grandmother, who sighed. 'He is a dear sweet child and, alas, sore neglected all his life but for my attention.' She brightened. 'But I have to tell you all that will end soon.' At their enquiring looks, she said, 'Have you not heard, my dears, his dear aunt Dorothy, his mother's eldest - and, she tells me, her favourite - sister is here on a visit from the Shetland Isles. She at least wishes to see more of her little nephew.'

  She paused. 'Such a tragic story. Poor Dorothy married a Shetlander, a merchant named John Sinclair, a man of means who traded with Norway and Denmark. He was introduced to the Throndsen family while the admiral was living in Copenhagen. And there he met his future wife.' She frowned. 'That would be ten years ago - or more. There was only one child to the marriage, a son who died in infancy. Two years ago, Master Sinclair was drowned when his ship was attacked by English pirates patrolling the Scottish roast.'

  There were sympathetic murmurs before she continued: 'Dorothy was desolate and I understand that Shetland is a very bleak and lonely place, especially in winter. She has long had a fancy to see Edinburgh, for Anna told her much about it when she visited Shetland on her return journeys from Scotland. And being childless, poor Dorothy has long wished to see her little nephew.' She took Seton's hand. 'You would love her, my dear. You could not wish to meet a sweeter or more gentle lady. I am quite captivated by her and, as for William, the dear child recognizes goodness and they took to each other immediately.'

  She smiled sadly. 'I believe there is quite another reason for this visit to Edinburgh which is that it is in his aunt's mind to persuade her sister that she should adopt little William. Indeed, that would be the happiest future for the child and it suits us both well.' With a shake of her head, she added; 'Alas, my infirmities will not improve with time. And Dorothy has no intention of taking my little darling away from me. With naught to keep her in Shetland, she wishes to settle in Scotland.' She sighed. 'My health is indifferent and I am indeed relieved and comforted to know that when I am gone William will have his aunt to love and care for him. As his parents have failed to do.' She ended on this hollow note, speaking as if to herself, staring bleakly into the fire.

  For a while no one spoke. Then, suddenly aware of them again, Lady Morham gave a start and apologized. 'It is wrong of me to make judgements, but his mother abandoned him when she finally returned home and left him, a mere infant, in my care, hoping that my son Jamie would be a true father and provide for him, give him an education and in due course a place at court.'

  She looked at them almost tearfully and pointed towards the door through which William had departed. 'That child has been used, used all his life. I believe Anna never thought of him other than as a means to further her own ambition. With William as heir to the Earldom of Bothwell, she fondly believed this would put pressure on Jamie to legalize their marriage.' She laughed harshly. 'She did not know my son! What cares he for his own flesh and blood. He rarely comes to Morham. Looks in on us for an hour or so, pats the child's head, throws him a coin and is gone again. I am not unaware that he has important matters to attend to at court, that he is well thought of by the Queen and is in charge of the Prince's christening at Stirling. But surely, surely - ' she spread her hands wide - 'no matter can be more important than his only son - his only child so far,' she added significantly, 'who could be his heir.

  'As for his mother, 'tis years since she saw her son, occasional letters are all that come from Norway. You know she returned there when her father, the Admiral, died, to devote herself to caring for her widowed mother who was in poor health. One might reasonably have thought some consideration would be given to the child she was leaving in Scotland,' she added bitterly.

  Fleming broke the small unhappy silence with a practical question: 'Has Mistress Sinclair reason to believe her sister will support her plans for adopting William?'

  'I fancy she will be glad to have him off her hands, for all the devotion she has ever shown.' She nodded eagerly. 'Indeed, Dorothy is quite confident that this is so. Especially as her sister can no longer enterta
in the faintest hopes of using William for her original purpose, now that he is wed to Lady Jean Gordon. Happily, I hope,' she added somewhat forlornly.

  As if suddenly aware of their solemn faces around her, she straightened her shoulders and said, 'But I do go on. Let us say I have great faith in Dorothy's intentions for little William.'

  Heads were shaken sympathetically, murmurs of agreement, and then, to everyone's relief, food and ale appeared at last, were consumed, and then it was time to depart.

  As they rose to leave, Lady Morham embraced Seton and Fleming: ‘Tis pity you have to go to Stirling so soon. In fact, had you come a day later, you would have met dear Dorothy who has gone to Edinburgh to engage lawyers about various matters concerning the matter of her property in Shetland and, of course, legal documents concerning William's adoption, which must be sent to Norway for her sister's approval.' She shook her head. 'Such matters take some time.'

  As they kissed her goodbye, the two Maries adding their good wishes for a speedy settlement, Tam remembered how Bothwell had told him that Dorothy was Anna Throndsen's favourite sister, and once established as Countess of Bothwell, wished to see her family elevated to some position of importance.

  Described by Lady Morham as a sweet and gentle caring woman, widowed and childless and eager to adopt Anna's neglected child, Tam also regretted that Mistress Sinclair had not been present. He would have liked to hear more about her sister and, bowing over Lady Morham's hand, he resolved to call in again at Morham on his return journey from Branxholm, with just such a prospect and a valid excuse in mind.

  With neither time nor opportunity among the gawping faces of servants to do more than bow and wish Godspeed to Seton and Fleming, Tam and four of Bothwell's mosstroopers turned their horses' heads towards Branxholm, the remaining escort continuing to Haddington with the two Maries.

  As they rode away, Tam mused on the information he had received. If, as Lady Morham stated, Anna had long been settled in Norway, keeping her invalid mother company, she presumably had not set foot in Scotland in recent times. In that case, then, they were nowhere nearer discovering the identity of the mysterious Spanish lady who wanted Bothwell's death.