Fire & Faith

by Steven Veerapen

  ***

  Guthrie the usher, to Danforth’s vexation, was their courier down to the chapel anteroom. He and Martin trailed the man in silence, each lost in their own thoughts. The king’s dream … who would revive that? Was it prophecy or warning, or nothing at all? He would have to revisit any books he might consult on dreams; it had been years since he had done so, and then it had been for his own reasons. Still Guthrie was talking. ‘All of this, all of it, I don’t know, it’s like a curse from on high. I’m doing what I can, laying charms, but without church services, I don’t know, and so many young lasses about tempting the lads. Heh. Oh, look up there. See, over the windows – a crown above a thistle. That was the king’s work. Well, Finnart’s work, too, or James Nicholson, I can’t recall who –’

  ‘What?’ spluttered Danforth. ‘What did you just say, Mr Guthrie?’

  ‘What, weren’t you listening? I told you to look at the carving, up there.’ He jutted his stave upwards.

  ‘No, after that.’

  ‘I said it was the work of Finnart, the bastard of Hamilton. Or Sir James Nicholson, who worked with him. But I reckon Finnart.’

  ‘What do you know of Finnart?’

  ‘What do I know? Everything – you know he was the king’s Master of Works?’

  Danforth dimly recalled that. James V had been a prodigious builder; Finnart had been his visionary, designing and organising it all. It had never interested Danforth – to him, it was a silly pastime of the rich, modernising, changing, making everything look like it had been lifted from France and dropped in Scotland. ‘How did you come by this knowledge?’

  ‘I dunno,’ shrugged Guthrie. ‘One hears things. Heh. I’ve an interest in crafting – what they call construction. I was after asking you about the palaces in England, actually, Mr Danforth. I’ve heard about King Henry’s place, Nonsuch – they say there’s none such like it. And take this grand palace – once an old pile of stone, now a great place fit for a queen.’

  ‘All England groans under the bulk of King Henry,’ said Danforth primly. ‘And the cost of his building work. Or so I hear.’

  ‘True that. For the most part men’ll wax weary of a madman’s rule. Especially if he’s broken with the Holy Father. That’s not just inviting the devil in, it’s rolling out the carpets for him. They’ll grow rich from his purse, but. Heh. Naming no names for who takes that old goat’s alms. Still, look around you. A jewel fit for a queen.’

  ‘But not fit for defence,’ said Martin. ‘Else our Mr Fraser would live still.’ Guthrie pouted.

  ‘Tell me,’ said Danforth, ‘have you heard of the late king’s dreams of Finnart, after his execution?’

  ‘Dreams?’ asked Guthrie. ‘How do you mean, dreams?’

  ‘Never mind,’ said Danforth. He didn’t want to encourage gossip amongst the staff. ‘Do you recall anything of Finnart?’

  ‘Only what was generally said – that he was a bastard in blood and a bastard in habit. Here did you know this: they say he used to cut an ‘H’ for ‘Hamilton’ into the faces of those he killed in battle? Tell me that’s not true evil. Tell me that’s not a sign of the devil working through a man. What do you think of that?’ Challenge rose in voice at the last, as though he were daring Danforth and Martin to disagree.

  ‘A charming habit,’ said Martin.

  ‘Aye, a holy terror said the common tongue. And a bloody murderer. He was the keeper of this castle until he lost his … well, until Henrysoun got the job, let’s just say. A mistress in every town and a victim too. If you want my thoughts, it’s his loose living that’s tainted this place, left it a dancing hall for dark spirits. They say that, don’t they, that a building can be soured by an evil man?

  ‘His building, but – that twisted mind was gifted by his dark master. The eye of a … a constructioner. We won’t see that like in Scotland again, I’m sorry to say. Heh. Anyway, what’s Finnart got to do with the price of fish?’ Guthrie’s eyes gleamed. ‘You don’t think your friend Fraser made some enemy of a friend of his? Is that it?’

  ‘I have no idea,’ said Danforth. ‘Where did Mr Fraser lodge when he was here? Where did he lay his head?’

  ‘Why, he bided with me.’ Guthrie gave a triumphant smile, as though savouring the revelation. It faded. ‘But, I mean, he slept in my chamber. The chamber you boys will be in. You’re forcing me out, you know, of my own room, mean though it is. I’m sleeping in the wine cellar.’

  ‘You lodged with him? What did he say? What was his manner?’

  ‘Och, he was a pain the arse. Not to speak ill of the dead.’ He crossed himself. ‘For he was a man without God, for all he was a cardinal’s man. Asking this and that, “is this all you have? You a gentleman? I have more than this”. A prideful goat. Interested in things, not in good discussion about prayer.’

  Danforth sighed. Fraser was that. ‘And the night he died. What happened?’

  ‘He didn’t come to bed that night.’

  ‘And you didn’t find that odd?’ asked Martin. ‘You didn’t raise the alarm?’

  ‘Hold on now, why should I? I was grateful for the quiet.’ Martin and Danforth cast each other a surreptitious look, eyebrows raised. ‘I just thought, you know, that he’d found himself some daft serving lass to wench with for the night. Or a boy.’ He shrugged. ‘You should know what he favoured more than me. I don’t indulge in either loose behaviour – for weak, godless men, that. So, I had me a peaceful sleep and then all hell broke loose the next morning. Well, you recall what I said about inviting the devil in? Someone did, that very night. But whether it was your man casting up devils or just falling prey to them I don’t know. But you can’t go blaming me for not saying anything. Someone doesn’t come to their chamber, you don’t think “oh, that’ll be another yin in the gardens wi’ his bits lopped off”. You tuck yourself in and you think no more about it.’

  ‘Is this the room?’ asked Danforth.

  Through the cavernous chapel, painted a bright blue, its high windows admitting stained light, they had reached a polished oak door. ‘Aye,’ said Guthrie, as though cheated. ‘He’s in there. We keep the door locked secure, see, to stop any bad airs from the corpse getting out. Heh. Candles are lit too, to ward off the infection. And I’ve put some charms about the room to keep the evil spirits away. And the windows draped, that should be a –’

  ‘Pray open the door, Mr Guthrie.’

  ‘Aye, aye. Here,’ Guthrie chapped three times with his stave. ‘Anybody in?’ He cackled, before drawing out keys and unlocking the door. Martin and Danforth looked at one another behind his back, sharing their distaste. ‘Well, gents, you’re welcome to him.’

  ‘Mr Guthrie,’ said Danforth. ‘Would you kindly go and summon the depute of the queen’s guard. I should like to speak to him.’

  ‘I’m not a page, sir, to be carrying messages. I’m an usher, a gentleman like yourselves. I can’t be going upstairs and downstairs, all the time using my feet like a young man. Send Mr Martin here.’

  ‘Just do it,’ said Danforth, his patience frayed, ‘just do it.’

  ‘Please, Mr Guthrie,’ added Martin. ‘It would be a great favour.’

  Guthrie seemed to weigh up being difficult versus being helpful. After a moment, a tight smile spread across his round face. ‘Very well. Seeing as you asked with such grace, Mr Martin. I’ll ask him. But I can do no more than ask, mind you, I can’t go issuing orders to the queen’s depute. You watch him though.’

  ‘Why is that?’ asked Danforth.

  Guthrie shifted his weight from one foot to another, looking around. His hand wandered to his crucifix, fingers turning white as he gripped it. ‘He … the depute. I’m sure he was a good man once.’

  ‘Meaning he is not now?’

  ‘Since last year, when his brother was released as provost of the burgh by the old king … Forrest’s changed. Turned towards the heresies, consorts with demons. All the folk in the palace know of it. Her Highness knows. She does nothing about it. And you�
�ve heard of the Henry Forrest burned for heresy – oh, must be ten years ago?’

  ‘Aye,’ said Martin. ‘When I was a pup. I remember my papa talking about it. Said the man went mad in the bottleneck dungeon before he was burnt.’

  ‘Kin to the same Forrests,’ said Guthrie. ‘I kid you not. Whole clan of devil-worshippers.’

  ‘You’re saying the depute is a Lutheran?’ asked Martin.

  ‘Aye. A heretic. It’s … well that’s why it’s being whispered that the devil stalks the palace halls. Because the depute invites him in, to dance and sing and slay us all in our beds.’

  ‘Then, as a gentleman usher you should stamp out such superstitions amongst the weak minded,’ snapped Danforth. But his own hand had wandered to the St Adelaide medal he wore around his neck, his spine tingling. Guthrie turned on his heel and walked away, crucifix bouncing. ‘That is a tiresome fellow.’ Something disturbed him about the usher, but he could not put his finger on it. To his irritation, Martin could.

  ‘Aye. He’s what you’d have become if we never went to Paisley last year. A God-loving servant more in love with the sound of his own voice. But gabshites have proven useful to us in the past, whether they intended to or not.’

  ‘Hmmm,’ said Danforth, frowning and folding his arms. ‘Usher, indeed. In my father’s day such a man would be working with the women, washing laundry and clucking his tongue.’ Danforth saw that Martin wasn’t listening. Instead he was staring apprehensively at the door. Disappointment flooded him; he had hoped, by now, that his friend would have lost all aversion to corpses.

  ‘It’s the cutting,’ Martin offered, as though reading his thoughts, his face pallid. ‘The thought of bone sticking out of broken flesh. I can’t even … it’s rank.’

  ‘It is not very pretty. Like battle wounds. Ugly, jagged. And I am not cold, Mr Martin. You knew this man, worked in his Grace’s service with him. Would you prefer to wait out here?’

  ‘No, Simon. Thank you. The last time I saw Fraser I pushed him into the mud. I’ll confess, that weights heavy on my conscious now, knowing the daft old goat went on to get murdered. I … perhaps I owe it to look upon him. Say sorry.’

  ‘And discover his killer.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Well, we shall not do that without seeing what the corpse can tell us.’

  ‘No. No, I suppose not. Only … do you not grow weary of it? Do you not grow weary of seeing death, and corpses … the … all the destruction, the murder?’

  ‘I never grow weary of doing God’s will.’ Realising how priggish that sounded, Danforth added, ‘Only I do wish sometimes His will was less bloody. I do wish He might set me back behind my desk, reading over his Grace’s English correspondence. Oh, and Mr Martin?’

  ‘Mmm?’

  ‘Do not ever embarrass me by presuming upon the queen mother’s generosity like that again. You’re a young man yet. Your knees can cope with a flagstone.’ Martin gave him a half-smile.

  Danforth pushed open the door, and the pair stepped into the flickering light of a corpse’s room.

  7

  No sheet had been laid over Fraser’s body. He lay instead on his back on a wooden board in front of the altar, the board balanced on some stout coffers. Whoever had placed him there had laid out his severed arms, still sleeved, crossed over his chest, in a grotesque parody of a corpse at rest. ‘At the very least they have had the good grace to close his eyes,’ said Danforth. ‘Mr Martin?’

  Martin’s head was turned to one side, biting on his knuckle. In the guttering light his face was white. ‘Do what you must, Simon. Speak to me as you do it. Please.’

  Danforth stepped towards the corpse and lifted first one severed arm and then the other, his eyes running over the wounds. ‘Little blood here. Neat cuts.’ As Martin had worried, bone glinted in the centre of each wound. ‘These were cut off at the elbows, all very precisely. I should say with something heavy – an axe, a sword. Likely one hard thrust apiece.’

  ‘What does that mean?’

  ‘I cannot say,’ said Danforth. ‘Not for sure. My guess would be that they were not the cause of death. The clothing is not very bloody. Oh –’

  Martin had crept up behind him, apparently steeled to look at the body. ‘Jesus,’ he whispered, crossing himself.

  ‘Kindly do not creep about, Arnaud. Do you see? He was not hacked at, did not fight off his attacker. I would wager he was dead before these wounds were inflicted. Help me get him over. Come on, I cannot do it alone.’

  With a moue of distaste, Martin helped Danforth roll Fraser’s body onto its front. It landed with a soft whump. ‘There,’ said Martin. ‘The wounds on his neck. Is this what killed him?’

  Danforth leant over the body. The back of the neck had been sliced into, but half-heartedly, as though the killer had been disgusted by the act, or disturbed. ‘No,’ he said. ‘No, there is still not enough blood. The blade has not even bitten far into the flesh. Perhaps it had grown blunt. This did not kill him.’

  ‘Then what did?’

  ‘Arnaud, I am no wizard, plucking knowledge out of the clear blue sky. But … what have we here?’ He picked at something stuck to the dead man’s clothing and held it up between thumb and forefinger. ‘A skelf – just a little wood.’ He pressed it, and as it stuck to his finger he held it up. Martin reached out to take it.

  ‘Ow!’ he hissed, as the little needle punctured the soft pad of his fingertip. A tiny spot of blood emerged. ‘Seriously, Fraser? Is this your revenge? Even in death he irks me.’ Danforth rolled his eyes as Martin shook away the skelf and sucked his finger. ‘That might have come from anywhere.’ But something else had drawn Danforth’s attention.

  ‘Look here. Some bruising. The type that comes after death, I should say. And,’ he added, running a finger again along the clothing, ‘grass stains. Little leaves of grass. Here – they are all over him.’ He nudged the body sideways, not quite rolling it back over. ‘Look there, on the front too. Twigs.’ He picked one off, the leaf still attached, and pocketed it.

  ‘So – Mr Fraser, God rest him, wasn’t known for his cleanliness. I saw him once with ale spilled down his jerkin. It was still there a week later.’

  ‘Dirt does not tell us what killed him. It was not these bruises. It was not these wounds. These, I think, were all done to him after his death. I doubt he met that death running wild through a forest. But as to what send him to it – I suspect we should have to open him up to discover it.’

  At this, all colour fled Martin’s face. ‘You’re not serious.’

  ‘I wasn’t suggesting I do it, Arnaud. I … I confess I would still not know what to look for, even had I the nerve. Yet … you are standing very close to me, very close to Mr Fraser, are you not?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Has it occurred to you that the smell in this room is somewhat foul. Fouler still since we turned over the corpse.’

  ‘But … that’s normal, isn’t it? Corpses give off foul airs.’

  ‘Yes, but not so quickly, not in a cold room in a cold palace. This reek, I think, is from a voiding of the bowels. Were I to undress the body I think we should find that Mr Fraser had done so.’

  ‘Jesus, Simon, don’t.’

  ‘I shall not, no. But I suspect that poor Fraser was overtaken by the need to find easement before his death. Perhaps afterwards as well. Now, what makes us require it?’

  ‘Eating. Drinking.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘What are you saying? These sound like riddles.’

  ‘Only this – and it is only a possibility. It may be that Mr Fraser was given – or took – some victuals that were unhealthy. Poisonous. And that afterwards, after his insides were churned enough to kill him, he was carved up. It was done for display.’

  ‘Then there was no ghost here, but a poisoner. That’s bad. We’re all in danger, then.’

  ‘I fear so. There are some poisons which make the brain sick, make the poor soul flee and the victim run wild before death.
Others unbalance the humours entirely, stopping the breath.’

  ‘What do we do, warn the dowager?’

  ‘We must. And we must discover if there are any Italians in service here. Find an Italian, find a poisoner. They are expert in the art. If an Italian is not our killer, at least he will be able to explain the workings.’ He leant again over the corpse and slid open the eyelids. ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘The eyes are enlarged. Poison.’

  ‘So what do you think, someone bent on vengeance?’

  ‘Against Fraser? I doubt it, but we shall look into it.’ The words of the irritating Guthrie were echoing. He would not make assumptions, though. Information must be stored securely. To his chagrin, Martin had no such qualms.

  ‘This depute of the guard, Forrest – and his brother. If they were kin to a man burned in the past, they might have a grudge against the cardinal. And the late king, if he dismissed the brother from the provostship.’

  ‘It’s possible,’ said Danforth in irritation. ‘You said your father told you of this – when?’

  ‘Dunno. Ten years ago? More?’

  ‘I see. It is probably nothing. Keep your suspicions close until they might be tested.’ Privately, he decided to be wary of the queen’s depute. If Forrest was a heretic, who knew what twisted thoughts he might harbour. ‘To tell you the truth, Arnaud, I cannot see it. Why should a man bear a grudge for years, and strike back only when the king is dead, and the cardinal imprisoned? I doubt Fraser even worked in his Grace’s service ten years ago. And to kill for the sake of one little burning. Why, I recall King Henry burning twenty-five anabaptists in a single day!’ Martin wrinkled his nose. ‘Aye,’ smiled Danforth. ‘The reek must have been powerful.’