‘I’ve not, sir.’
MacKenzie placed the etching on the counter. ‘Are you a purveyor of these?’
Quinn did not say anything. MacKenzie noticed cold calculation in his reptilian eyes.
‘You were seen beside the city walls with Glenbeath. This was dropped by his lordship.’
Quinn smiled, gesturing with his hands, as if to say what a fool he had been. ‘I offer another service to some gentlemen. The perfume trade is a fickle one. When times are good, people are happy to buy such trifles, but when business is soft demand falls suddenly. Such pieces sell whatever the weather. They might be described as illicit by some. They show men and women, or just women or men in various poses. Despite being frowned upon by the church, they are very popular. I believe there’s nothing wrong with them.’
‘You may not, Mr Quinn. But what of the association to which you belong?’
‘I don’t know what you mean.’
‘Sodomy is a capital offence, sir.’
‘I don’t practise sodomy, Mr MacKenzie. The prints do not show sodomy.’
‘They don’t show it but they hint it’s about to occur.’
‘That’s in the mind of the viewer. It’s nothing to do with me,’ he smiled.
‘How did Glenbeath become a customer?’ continued MacKenzie sternly.
‘I attended a gambling den where I met a number of gentlemen who indicated they were interested in buying my goods. I provided a selection for Glenbeath.’ Quinn leaned towards MacKenzie over the counter and dropped his voice. ‘I beg that you say nothing about this to my sister, sir. She’s of a… pious disposition. She knows nothing of my other business. It would be most upsetting for her.’
He raised the hatch and moved quickly to the door, locked it and turned roud the sign to indicate he was closed. MacKenzie feared he was about to be assaulted, but Quinn returned to the counter and dropped down behind it, reappearing with a metal box. He placed it on the counter and opened it with a small key. ‘I buy these from France and the Low Countries. I draw a few myself.’
Scougall was waiting outside.
‘Nothing is quite as it seems among the Presbyterians, Davie,’ MacKenzie said, seeming to enjoy his discomfort. ‘The word hypocrite is never far from my lips when such men are concerned.’
‘Quinn may be a liar and a dishonourable tradesman but does that make him a murderer?’ Scougall asked.
‘He can’t be excluded. He stands in public as a pious man.’
‘I agree he is a hypocrite, but it’s difficult to think of a reason why he would kill.’
38
Storming of the Palace
FOLK HAD FLOCKED to Edinburgh from Galloway and Dumfries and Ayrshire where the Presbyterians took their strength, areas which had always supported the Covenant. The tension rose day after day as thousands flooded into the city, swelling the mob night after night. The target was no longer the windows of suspected Papists, but Holyrood Palace itself, regarded as the centre of the King’s power.
When Scougall closed his office at about four in the afternoon, there were already huge crowds, perhaps thousands, swarming around the High Street, chanting, shouting and singing psalms. It was as if the entire nation were crammed into one thoroughfare. Drums were beating through all the quarters of the town, summoning everyone to the street.
He locked his door carefully, hoping his office would not be ransacked, and returned to his lodgings, unsure if he should venture onto the streets later to observe events. MacKenzie warned him to remain in doors. As he sat with Mrs Baird over a capon and a cup of ale, the noise from outside kept getting louder. After eating, he retired to his chamber to dip into a book. He had only read a page or two when there was a banging on his door. Mrs Baird was screaming that she had heard from her neighbour Mrs Strachan that Papist soldiers were in the town. God help them, they would be slain in their beds!
He felt he had to venture out to find out the truth. Puting on his cloak, he pulled the hood over his head to avoid being recognised. As soon as he reached the High Street the shout went up that the Popish Chapel in the Abbey was to be pulled down.
With the greatest difficulty Scougall struggled through the vast crowd, edging his way down the High Street, keeping close to the tenements. It took him almost an hour to make his way to the foot of the Canongate where he took up position beside a stone pillar outside a shop which provided a view of the Palace gates.
Stamping his feet to keep warm, he stood listening to the chants and songs of the crowd. At last a serjeant from the Palace appeared at the gates. Scougall was close enough to hear him address the leaders of the rabble. ‘Retreat or my troops will fire!’ he screamed.
This threat only increased the ire of the crowd and the soldier was barracked violently as he retreated into the grounds. Suddenly there was a volley of shots. A group of soldiers had taken up position behind the gates.
There was mayhem as those at the front of the mob tried to get back up the Canongate. Scougall was shoved against the pillar so violently he could hardly breathe. He prayed he would not lose his footing, fearing he would be trampled to death.
When the smoke cleared a dozen bodies lay near the gates. Word spread back through the vast assembly that some of the protesters, including a number of children, were butchered, whipping up the anger of the people to fever pitch. Drums continued to beat, psalms were sung; the Papists more violently decried. Scougall remained where he was, fearful about what would happen next, but mesmerised by the frenzy.
At last the town company marched through the crowd. It was commanded by Captain Graham and at the front were a group of gentlemen including the Presbyterian leaders Sir James Montgomery, William Lockhart and Lord Mersington. Scougall spotted some of the association. Guthrie with sword in his hand; Grimston proclaiming his hatred with raised fist; Lammington back in the ranks. They were followed by the Lord Provost and the magistrates of the city in their robes of office. The rabble was armed with a variety of weapons, including old guns, pitch forks, knives and swords.
Scougall realised something significant had happened. The privy councillors had switched sides. They now stood with the mob.
Heralds and trumpeters in bright liveries approached the gates with a warrant ordering the soldiers to quit the Palace. Scougall heard the captain inside shout: ‘The warrant’s nae legal. It was nae made with full quorum of the Council.’
It was not clear which side fired first but all hell broke loose in front of the palace gates as weapons were disengaged on both sides. Scougall dropped instinctively to the ground and crawled behind the pillar as shots ricocheted off the tenements. The gentlemen and magistrates fled for cover, leaving Captain Graham with the trained bands and the mob behind him. It was a confusing scene. All was smoke and cries and screams.
After about ten minutes of chaos, someone shouted that Graham had taken his men round the back of the Palace through the Water Port and gained entry to the courtyard. The shout went up that the captain of the King’s soldiers had fled. In despair his troops began to throw down their arms, encouraging the mob to surge forward. Those at the front were over the gates in seconds, opening them for the rest, who swarmed into the palace.
Scougall moved cautiously from his hiding place in their wake. He entered the courtyard where many of the soldiers were taken prisoner. A number who were lined up against a wall, begged piteously for quarter. It was a sickening sight to observe the mob’s blood lust. God’s creatures reduced to beasts, slaying with joy. Limbs were hacked off by youths as young as twelve in a frenzy of hatred. He had to avert his eyes in disgust.
The rabble flooded through the palace, pulling down all they could find in the private Chapel and demolishing everything in the Abbey Church which smacked of Popery, plundering the house of the Jesuits in an orgy of destruction, smashing the exquisite carvings of Gibbons, ransacking the furniture from church and palace; chairs, pews, tables, beds, cabinets, pictures, everything that could be hacked loose, was thrown onto
a great pile in the courtyard and set on fire. When their work of destruction was done and all the apartments looted, they raided the Chancellor’s wine cellars and made themselves as drunk on wine as they had been with zeal.
Scougall was sickened by it all and had a deep desire to be gone. He wandered off in the direction of Arthur’s Seat, climbing the lower slopes to St Anthony’s Well where he looked back at the huge bonfire in the Palace courtyard. He dropped to the ground in despair and lay on the damp grass watching the rioters like small insects against the flames. He could not understand why the Godly were destroying and killing. When it appeared the frenzy was abated he descended to wander through the devastation. The Palace of Holyrood, once the seat of Scottish kings, was ransacked. It was terrible to see it reduced to such a pitiful state. In the long gallery, portraits of kings stretching back generations were trampled on the ground. There were tears in his eyes as he reflected how King James had stirred up the spirit of revolt in his people, subverted the constitution of the kingdom by allowing the Mass to be celebrated contrary to the laws of the realm. He had whipped up the people’s anger and unleashed the mob like a storm. He was responsible for the atrocities. He did not deserve to be King. The people had risen up to overthrow a tyrant.
As he stood in the courtyard he was tapped on the shoulder. Lammington had a strange smile on his face. He had been drinking. ‘It’s a famous day, Mr Scougall. A famous day for Scotland. A famous day for Presbytery.’
Scougall did not have the heart to disagree.
‘All those who side with the Papist will be cast asunder,’ Lammington laughed. ‘A glorious revolution is come tae this nation. It’s oor time at last!’ He glugged from a bottle and disappeared into the night.
Scougall walked home despondently through crowds of drunken marauders. Many were taking advantage of the anarchy to engage in wanton destruction. Shops were looted, storerooms ransacked, taverns raided. Every rogue took the opportunity to seize what was not his. The Godly brethren did not protect the inhabitants of the town. Some were no doubt drunk like Lammington, but the leaders had melted away, leaving the streets to the scum that had floated to the surface. A drunk took a swipe at him for no reason, swearing at him and calling him a servant of Antichrist. Pushing the man aside, he ran off up the High Street, not stopping until he was at his door. A terrified Mrs Baird was overjoyed to see him alive. He told her all that had happened as they sat in the kitchen, sharing a cup of the brandy which she kept for such desperate times.
‘I’m an auld woman who’s seen muckle in ma life back tae the days of the Covenant. I’ve never seen such hatred in the people, even during the prayer book riots in the ’30s.’
Scougall remained awake for a long time in his chamber, looking out of his window onto the High Street below. He could see bodies lying unattended. The city was transformed into a scene from Hell. Was this part of God’s design, preordained from the start of time? He could make no sense of it.
A short message from MacKenzie summoned him to the Tolbooth. Someone known to them was among the slain. As he plodded through the devastation, he saw that windows were smashed everywhere; goods pulled from shops lay strewn across the street. Men were lying in corners, nursing wounds or in drunken slumbers. It was as if an army had passed through the city during the night, an army of the damned. MacKenzie was waiting at the door from where Stuart was carried to his execution.
‘Is Elizabeth safe, sir?’ Scougall blurted out.
‘She’s fine, Davie, so is Meg. Libberton’s Wynd was thankfully unscathed. There was only a little damage done to the shop on the ground floor. This is your new world of Presbytery.’ His words were not said in anger, but with resignation. ‘Edinburgh was never treated like this, even during the Great Rebellion of 1638.’
‘I didn’t think it would be like this.’ Scougall lacked any desire to argue about politics. He was sick of the whole business of revolution. They had lived in relative peace before. What waited for them now such evil was unleashed? ‘Is it Guthrie?’
MacKenzie nodded. Scougall’s first emotion was relief.
Stirling took them to a whitewashed chamber on the ground floor where two lines of bodies lay under winding sheets. ‘Four of the association are dead. Six remain, including you, Davie,’ he said.
Relief gave way to fear in Scougall’s heart. The killings would continue until they were all slain. It was God’s will that he should be murdered too! ‘Should I leave for home, sir?’ It was the first thought that came into his head.
‘The killer will know you’re a Musselburgh man, Davie.’
‘It would be foolish, sir. I forgot myself. I would not leave you… or Elizabeth.’
Stirling told a guard to pull back one of the sheets. They looked down on Guthrie’s battered corpse. His old face was smashed to pulp. The nose and ears were cut off, the eyes plucked from their sockets. But the countenance was still recognisable. His long grey whiskers descended to a loose hanging jaw.
‘He was found in the courtyard of the palace,’ said Stirling. ‘No one saw anything in the chaos.’
‘What will happen now?’ asked Scougall.
‘Twenty bodies are brought in from across the city. Others still lie in the streets. My guards have no authority any more. Most have fled themselves. How am I to investigate all these crimes?’ Stirling seemed oddly calm, resigned to the situation. ‘Rosehaugh’s time is over. I’ll fall with him. It’s all come sooner than expected – freedom from the burden of office. I can retire, although considerably poorer than my wife hoped.’
‘We still need your help, Archibald. It’ll not aid the King, but we may save the lives of the rest of the club, including Davie’s.’
‘I’ll do everything I can, you know that.’ There was a hint of a smile on Stirling’s face.
‘An agreement is still possible, although I know many want rid of him. He’s still the King… whatever he does,’ added MacKenzie.
‘It’s perhaps time for another.’
Scougall was shocked that the words came from Stirling, a faithful servant of James Stewart. His reign was surely over if his own supporters were voicing such sentiments. But he felt no elation. He had seen the face of the Beast on the streets, watched men being hacked to pieces. He had learned that the Devil was in the hearts of those who wanted Presbytery as well as those who served Rome.
MacKenzie kneeled beside the body, opened the jacket and searched the pockets. He pulled out a letter. The handwriting was familiar. Scougall could see it was addressed to Rosehaugh.
Urging me to join the dance with my fellow creatures, the drums call me to action, pulling me with their rhythm, drawing me to the streets.
Lay aside thy lassitude. Tonight they burn with anger. They scream, chant and curse, condemning the reign of Antichrist. They declaim the Whore of Babylon. I join the throng. I am one with them. I exalt in their anger. I am engulfed in the current sweeping them to the palace of sin.
Like a tumultuous river made from paltry streams. They are no longer lost or afraid. They are a proud people again. I have made them so.
Oh land of the coward. Oh land of the hypocrite. Oh land of the vanquished. I feel your spirit. This is what I have waited for. This is what I have helped ignite.
Covenanted with God, oh holy land! Tonight the Papist will burn. I am the transforming one in the blackness of the night. I lead them to the palace of shame. The Papists will be dismembered, their limbs thrown to the dogs. They are nothing in the great river of being.
Storm the palace of the priests! I stand with you on the barricade. Those within must be sacrificed. A mighty fire will burn. A mighty conflagration to consume the old order.
All will be reborn, transmogrified through blood. Scotland renewed! Oh mighty spirit of change, I beseech you.
Glorious will be thy revolution.
MacKenzie’s eyes darted through the text picking out eight capital letters O…U…S…L…A…G…C…L He sighed deeply.
39
&nbs
p; The Road to London
SCOUGALL WAS EXHAUSTED, his face deathly white, dark crescents beneath his eyes. He had not slept a wink since the discovery of the letter four days before, despite Stirling appointing a guard for his personal protection. The lugubrious fellow was standing outside his office door picking his nose.
He saw MacKenzie on the street outside. ‘Have you heard the news, Davie?’ he said as he entered.
‘I’ve heard William is at St James’s Palace and Whitehall full of Dutch guards,’ said Scougall in an agitated state. ‘The King’s taken barge for Gravesend. He’s abandoned his kingdom!’
‘The House of Stewart does not furnish good kings,’ replied MacKenzie. ‘It’s careless to lose a throne once, but for a father and son to do so is ridiculous!’
‘I should be pleased by the news, sir. But I’m… beside myself with worry. I don’t know what I should do. I can’t stop shaking. I can’t be guarded like this for the rest of my days.’
‘We’ll find him soon, Davie.’ MacKenzie put his hand on his shoulder. ‘Let’s try to think of other business. Politics is fickle but commerce endureth. Tell me of your venture.’
Scougall’s appetite for business was diminished by his state of anxiety. He said nothing as MacKenzie placed a small pile of silver coins on his desk. ‘There’s your hundred pounds sterling.’
Scougall counted them carefully into a leather bag, placing it in the kist at the back of the office. He wrote out a receipt before opening the subscription book for him to sign.
MacKenzie took the book carefully in his hands, staring at it intently. ‘I should’ve thought, Davie!’
‘What is it, sir?’
‘This contains the hands of all the subscribers.’
‘It does, sir.’
‘It’s worth checking.’
‘Checking what?’
‘The letter sent to Stuart, of course.’
Scougall had forgotten about it. ‘Stirling has the original.’
Pilgrim of Slaughter Page 20
