Fire & Faith

by Steven Veerapen

  ‘Yes, I had heard. The English king has overreached himself. Even his minions in our nobility balk at the shamefacedness. Is that all?’

  ‘Yes, your Grace,’ said Danforth, a little disappointed. He had hoped that might have been news and felt a little foolish that it wasn’t. Still, it felt good to be talking politics again, to be back in the thick of it, the swirling of allegiances and the calculation of motives. But he had been outside of the cardinal’s sphere for too long to feel confident. For a while, he had felt like quite the private citizen, his mind focused on small-town concerns. The players on the political stage had become just that: players, distant and affected. For a brief spell there had been more to life than work. There had been family, and friends, and even thoughts of women.

  ‘Well, it is a topsy-turvy world indeed. The case is this. The king is dead, the new sovereign a baby, the English king demanding Scotland’s subjection. Our daft young governor, having accepted Henry’s support and sworn to bow to him, is said to be growing weary of the influence of the Douglas brothers. Well, parliament shall soon confirm his as lord protector. The estates can’t fail to do so, as long as he’s next in line to the throne. Might even make him full regent. And strengthened by parliament, he might be free of Henry’s pair of ancient Douglas puppets.’

  ‘Damned Scotch-English,’ said Martin, thudding a fist against his thigh.

  ‘Aye, but even then, Archie Angus and George Douglas have Scottish hearts. Anyway, the governor is finally beginning to grow some bollocks, but neither one is quite hairy enough to tell Henry and his friends to go to the devil. The country needs a firm hand. So does my cousin. They need me, even if they’re too damned thick-headed to know it.’ Danforth detected a rising note of excitement in the old man’s voice, as though active discussion of state affairs was breathing life into him. Even his eyes seemed to sparkle as he spoke. It was infectious. ‘Yet I have other work for you, for we have other friends to seek.’ Beaton let it hang in the air. Danforth knew his master had a flair for the dramatic. ‘I speak, gentlemen, of the queen dowager, mother to our new sovereign lady. Though I dislike women in politics, I will own that she’s a sharp one. Too sharp by half. She is one who might be of great use, if we can take her in harness. Her greatest concern, at present, is the safety of her child. They are currently at Linlithgow, but it is a palace, not a fortalice; the dowager wishes against all hope that the little queen be moved to some stronger fastness, safe from the governor or any who might wish her harm. If the baby should die, after all, Arran will likely become King of Scots for lack of a surer heir. The Douglases would certainly support him if he should aim so high.

  ‘It is my will that you court Queen Marie. Mr Danforth, you will turn her against England, if she needs any encouragement in that quarter. Mr Martin, you will incline her to France, remind her of her heritage and my own great love of her old country. Find out how secure her person is, and that of the bairn. Or rather find out how secure they are not and stress my remedy.’

  Danforth turned to Martin and both broke out in nervous smiles. The queen dowager, Marie of Guise, loomed tall and smiling in Danforth’s mind. He had seen her when she arrived at St Andrews as King James’ bride: tall, elegant, bejewelled, smiling and inclining her head seemingly at every individual in the crowd. Had any man there not envied the groom? He shut down that thought quickly. Women of the highest class were like Greek statues – they might be admired for their beauty, but no good servant would ever be low enough to admit to hoping to lay his hands on one. Danforth had time to let the words ‘royal service’ march proudly through his mind before Beaton spoke again. ‘I see this commission pleases you. And it’s glad I am of it. I confess I sent Shug Fraser ahead to make your introductions. So, her Grace should know that two men are coming from me, aiming to help her move the queen deeper into the realm. Into safety. I rather liked the idea of shaming that smelly old goat Fraser by having him announce the imminent arrival of his enemies. Aye, when he returns I’ll –’

  The squeaking of the door silenced Beaton, and all three men turned their heads.

  ‘Beg yer pardon, my lord cardinal,’ said the guard, poking his bushy head in. ‘I surely hate to disturb your Grace, knowing you enjoy yer solitude and seein’ as ye have so few bloody visitors, but Ah’m just a humble conveyer of your guests, so it seems.’

  ‘You taunt me, gaoler?’ snapped Beaton. ‘I’d advise you not to, if you know what’s good for you hereafter.’ Colour rose in Beaton’s cheeks. The guard dropped his sarcasm and turned to someone Danforth couldn’t see beyond the door.

  ‘Go in.’

  A boy entered, only about twelve but resplendent in royal red-and-yellow. The guard slammed the door after him, staying outside. The child immediately fell to his knees. ‘Your Grace, my lord cardinal,’ he said, in an affected, piping voice. ‘I come from the queen dowager in residence at her palace of Linlithgow with a message from you.’ The accent was strange – Scots, but with a barely-there lilt.

  ‘From me?’

  ‘Uh … for you,’ said the boy, finally looking up.

  ‘That’s grand, laddie,’ said Beaton. ‘Speak softly, now. Speak with care, do you understand me?’

  ‘Aye, your Grace. The queen – the queen dowager I mean – she told me what to say and how to say it.’ Canny woman, thought Danforth. ‘You sent a man, Fraser, to her at Linlithgow,’ he said, his squeaking voice turning to that of a little lecturer as he recited his lines. ‘It is her duty to inform you, my lord, that your servant has fallen ill with an accident.’ Darting a glance behind him first, the boy drew a finger across his throat to complete his garbled message. ‘She bids you get word to her that something must be done for him, and right quickly. Until then she will keep him close. His … uh, his illness will not be advertised until your own physicians can tend to him.’

  Beaton paled, but said nothing. Instead he made a quick sign of the cross. Eventually, he croaked out, ‘thank you, boy. My men here will take you down and give you something to eat.’ The boy beamed, and Martin reached out and ruffled his hair; he squirmed away, frowning. ‘You hear that, gentlemen? You are become my worthy physicians. Though poor Fraser I fear is beyond earthly aid. No family either, no sons to avenge him that I know of. Listen to me, lads, and I say this in all wisdom: you are about to enter upon a stage, on which every person is playing a part. Play yours well, my friends. Find out what has become of Fraser, see if he had any enemies – save yourselves. Then get you both to Linlithgow. Court the dowager. Win her to us. God speed you on your way.’

  2

  ‘How did it feel seeing his Grace again, Mr Martin?’ asked Danforth. They were in the courtyard. Martin had just returned from seeking the little page a mug of ale and some bread from the kitchen servants at Dalkeith. While he was gone, Danforth had sat down on a low wall by the stable block. Beaton’s other servants had left him alone. They knew him, he supposed, as a solitary man, best avoided and only discussed behind his back. There he had let his mind wander. Being back in the cardinal’s service is what he had wanted, after all, what he had prayed for. Why did it feel like such a dull climax, even with a potential assassination to investigate? Recently, perhaps, he had come to see that life had value beyond delivering good service.

  Martin didn’t sit down. Since his mother’s house had been burned down, the younger man had seemed constantly alert, eager always to be on the move. They had travelled to Edinburgh before visiting Beaton, to don their liveries and spruce themselves up, and all the time Martin had been desperate to be off.

  ‘How did it feel?’ Danforth repeated. It was a question that even a few months before he would never have asked. Then privacy had ruled him, a solid carapace of formality and withdrawal shielding him from the world. Not it seemed natural, almost expected.

  ‘Feel?’ asked Martin, kicking at a stone and turning on the spot to watch it skitter away. He shrugged. ‘I don’t know. Good? Aye, his Grace is a good master. I’ve had greater things on my mind
to be honest.’

  ‘Yes.’ Danforth folded his arms and looked up at the sky, a turbid, lowering grey. It was cold, and his breath came out in a funnel of mist. ‘Well, is the young page suitably fed and watered?’

  ‘Aye.’ Martin brightened. ‘He’s eating just now. Here, that was some news he brought though. About Fraser.’

  ‘Hmm. Though I confess I did not like the man, it grieves my heart to know that he lies dead. Did the boy say anything? Was it by the hand of some unknown assailant, on the road perhaps?’

  ‘I didn’t like to ask him.’ Martin jerked his head at the courtyard, where men in the Douglas colours were gathered in groups, sharpening knives and occasionally casting them hostile glances. ‘Not in front of these monkeys. Said once he’d stuffed his face to meet us in the stable block. Good boy. He’s half-French too, from a good house, sent over when the king was wed. “Before I was a man”, he says.’

  ‘Excellent. I should imagine that rogues on the highway have set upon Mr Fraser.’ The news across the country was that violence had escalated since the king’s death, and that the roads were best avoided unless travelling in a well-armed group. It stood to reason. When the political nation fell into chaos, the rest followed, like water disappearing down a drain.

  ‘Maybe,’ Martin said. He had started working his hand at a loose piece of stone in the wall beside Danforth, getting his fingers under it and easing it out.

  ‘Of course, you know, it might be possible that there is some other plot. Something aimed against the new queen, or the old one.’

  ‘Maybe. He was an old shit, but he was one of our old shits, you know? Aye, it’s a rotten business, to be honest. Here, have you met the old queen? The dowager? Queen Marie?’

  ‘I have,’ said Danforth, unfolding his arms and allowing a smile to tug at the corners of his mouth. ‘On her arrival at St Andrews. When she came to the country as a bride. She even spoke to me, when she visited the castle.’

  ‘Oh? What did she say?’

  ‘She said, “are you a scholar or a priest”? In French of course.’

  ‘And what did you say?’

  ‘I said, “A clerk, madam, and pleased you are to be our queen”. In Scots. Of course, what I ought to have said was, “With your Grace’s leave, I am a servant of the lord bishop”. And I should have said it in French, of course. But she did not mind. She smiled and moved on. I suppose she did not understand a word I said, so fresh had she come to these shores. But smile she did, and one of warmth, too, as I recall it.’ As Danforth spoke, he pictured her that day, a winsome smile on her face. He was not naïve enough to think that all high-born men and women had an interest in the lives of servants, but some of them – like Queen Marie – managed to convince people that they did. She had looked around at everyone assembled on a grey, windy day and made each feel like they were the only person in whom she was interested.

  ‘Well, it sounds like you’re old friends, then. Maybe she’ll remember you.’

  Danforth gave Martin a sharp look, hoping to detect sarcasm, but his face was impassive. ‘If you think to mock, Mr Martin, I –’

  ‘Peace, here comes the page boy. His name’s Mathieu, by the way. Be kind.’

  ‘I am without fail kin –’

  ‘Good morrow to you, gentleman,’ said Mathieu, marching towards them and bowing. ‘I … uh … thank you for your hospitality.’

  ‘It’s not ours,’ said Martin. ‘It’s the Douglases have the run of this place.’

  That seemed to throw the boy a little, the affected adulthood faltering. ‘Well, mebbe I should go over there and give thanks?’ He pointed at the groups in the courtyard.

  ‘I wouldn’t,’ said Martin. ‘Bugger them. Come, let’s speak privately.’

  Danforth eased himself off the wall, his knee cracking. ‘Ouch,’ said Martin. ‘Would you prefer to be carried in a litter, old bones?’ Danforth gave him a sour look, but without much heat in it. It was good to see a bit of humour again.

  The stable was dank, dark, and reeked of manure. The door to it was rickety and reached neither floor nor ceiling, but it was better than nothing. Danforth’s old plough horse, Woebegone, was stabled alongside Coureur, Martin’s sleeker, black mount. Neither paid much attention to the intrusion. Danforth walked the length of the small building and back. ‘We are quite alone,’ he nodded. ‘Now, young …’

  ‘Mathieu,’ said Martin.

  ‘I know that, sir. Mathieu, I have some questions regarding your message.’

  ‘I dunno,’ said Mathieu, suddenly seeming frightened. ‘I was to speak to the cardinal. I didn’t get telt I could say anything else.’

  ‘It’s all right,’ said Martin. ‘We’re the cardinal’s trusted secretaries. You’re in the queen dowager’s household, is that right?’

  ‘Aye.’

  ‘Well, you’re allowed then to speak to her well-trusted servants rather than jetting up and down her palaces, barging into her bedchamber and speaking to her Grace yourself?’

  ‘I … yes. Yes, that’s how it works.’

  ‘Well it’s the same thing here, Mathieu, exactly the same.’

  The boy relaxed, breathing out.

  ‘Now,’ Danforth began. ‘Are we to understand that the cardinal’s servant, one Mr Fraser, is dead?’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ said Mathieu, eyes widening. ‘Oh, very much dead.’

  ‘Good. Well, not good, but you take my meaning. Was he slain or did he meet with some accident?’

  ‘Most definitely slain, sir.’

  ‘And where did this happen?’

  ‘Just beyond the palace walls, they found him.’

  ‘Who found him?’

  ‘The queen’s guard. He was … the night before he was whinging about not feeling well – he was a whinger, Mr Fraser, I thought, though not to speak ill or anything. A … pleurnicheuse, the dowager’s women said.’

  ‘Go on, son,’ said Martin.

  ‘Yes. He wasn’t well, he kept saying. He wanted to leave. Said he would be gone by the morning. And he was, you know, in a way. The guard found him with his arms chopped off, and most of his head, I think. I didn’t see him but.’

  ‘Oh shit,’ said Martin.

  ‘Kindly do not curse before the lad,’ said Danforth, but his own colour had drained. ‘Mathieu, was the nature of Mr Fraser’s commission known?’

  ‘Eh?’

  ‘Did you know why he was at Linlithgow? Did anyone?’

  ‘Dunno,’ shrugged Mathieu. ‘The rumours said that he came to tell her Highness to move the queen to safety, to get her deep into the country, you know? But that’s what everyone’s saying. England will want her. Better to get her into Edinburgh or Stirling. Safe, like, where King Henry can’t grab her.’

  ‘I see. The queen’s guard, do they have knowledge of who did this evil deed?’

  ‘I dunno. I was just sent out here to get the cardinal’s help. The dowager, she’s right upset. She looked scared, I thought. Mr Forrest, he’ll find the killer –’

  ‘Who?’ asked Danforth.

  ‘Forrest, sir. He’s head of the queen’s guard.’

  ‘I see,’ said Danforth. The man might resent any infringement on his jurisdiction. That could be a problem. Some men were touchy about their authority. ‘Can you think of anything else, anything at all, about Mr Fraser’s visit?’

  ‘Not really. Only that no one liked him much. Not hate, I don’t mean, not like any of us wanted to see him all chopped into bits, but he was … not an easy man.’

  ‘That much we knew already,’ smiled Martin, taking Mathieu’s arm and walking him to the door. He gripped the rusty handle and pulled. ‘Well it’s us who owe you thanks, young sir. You’ve been a – urgh!’

  Martin, Danforth and Mathieu started in unison at the two men crouched just beyond the stable door. ‘Who are you,’ shouted Danforth, his voice coming out in a whine. ‘What do you mean by listening at doors?’ As his eyes adjusted to the light, he could see the Douglas colours and arms embla
zoned on their doublets.

  The pair got up from their crouch. One of them was taller, his hair curled and styled. He brushed a lock behind his ear before speaking. ‘We might listen wherever we bloody well feel the urge to listen,’ he said, brushing a speck of dirt off his sleeve. ‘This is our land.’

  ‘Who are you?’ asked Martin.

  ‘None of your business,’ said the tall man. ‘But since you ask so nicely, slave, I’m Cam Hardie and my friend here is Geordie Simms. Loyal henchmen of the clan Douglas. Anything said on Douglas land is for our ears. You three are our business. And the Earl of Angus, our master, has a right to know of any whispering in stables.’

  ‘Your master is a paid slave of Henry VIII,’ said Danforth, a hand on his hips.

  ‘Oh ho ho,’ said Hardie. ‘Hark at this long streak of piss with his English sheep’s face and English sheep’s bleating, slandering our master, a Scotsman born and true.’

  ‘I,’ said Danforth, his spine stiffening, ‘had the good grace to turn my face from England’s heresies.’ The accusation of Englishness was so careworn it no longer bothered him – only, perhaps, the laziness of it rankled. ‘Unlike your master, who takes King Henry’s money and does his bidding here.’

  ‘Watch what you say about the earl,’ said the other man, Simms. It was the first time he had spoken, and Danforth drew back a little. Though he was shorter than the foppish Hardie, there was something more menacing about the thin face and the furtive way he kept his hands buried in his pockets. ‘Watch it, Englishman.’

  ‘At any rate,’ said Hardie, with a swish of cloak. ‘We’ve heard all there is to hear. We know what you know, remember that. Our master will know everything your master knows, and more besides.’ What does that mean? wondered Danforth. ‘It might be that the earl and the Lord George will have some interest in your dead friend.’