Fire & Faith

by Steven Veerapen

  ‘You, Monsieur, feed my purse,’ she piped, causing him to jump. ‘I am your lord and master.’

  ‘I have nothing for you,’ he spluttered, trying to make his voice as deep and authoritative as Forrest’s. Senat’s brow knitted, and she made as though to move on, before stopping. ‘Pray speak again and crave pardon from your master,’ she said.

  ‘I said I have nothing for you.’ Go away, he added silently.

  ‘But peace,’ she said. ‘You are an Englishman!’ Her face suddenly cleared of all expression. ‘Oh, oh, forgive me, Master Englishman.’ To Danforth’s horror, she dropped to her knees so that all he could see by his chair was a stubbly crown inside the ridiculous circlet of linen. She grasped at his sleeve. ‘Oh forgive me, England. I am your servant and your vassal. I know my place, master, master, master.’

  Danforth shook her grip as Guthrie hooted laughter. Through the rushing of blood in his ears Danforth could hear the infuriating usher chirping, ‘she’s good, is she no’? She’s got him marked.’ Who the “him” was, himself or Arran, Danforth didn’t know.

  Mercifully, the fool began retreating from him, still on her knees. She shot one last, vicious look up, rapping the coins in her pocket, before standing and moving to Martin. ‘Feed my purse …’

  Danforth turned back to his food, his cheeks flaming, aware that Senat was receiving some coins from his friend. When she had moved along again, Martin laughed. ‘She had you there,’ he said. Then, with more feeling, ‘are you sore, Simon? She’s just a fool. She makes sport of everyone. It’s her occupation, you know that.’

  ‘And a bootless occupation it is,’ snapped Danforth. Then, more in anger than anything else, he added, ‘and little surprise to me that you find mirth in it, witless young fool you are.’

  ‘Woah now,’ said Guthrie. ‘You two behave, else her Grace will have you out. Heh. Devilment at dinner, now, I don’t know.’

  Out, thought Danforth, is exactly where he wanted to be. He was used to having his Englishness remarked upon, but not mocked before a whole party. Not in the presence of a queen dowager. It made him look … well, it made look like an exile. Like an English spy. Again, he felt Forrest’s eyes on him, this time with malicious amusement. He knew he should meet them with challenge, but he felt unseated.

  The dinner ended when the queen dowager rose, giving the assembled men and women another nod. Before she left, Madame LeBoeuf clinked a ring against her silver goblet. ‘Her Grace the Queen Dowager Marie of Scotland wishes to thank you all for your company,’ she announced in high-accented Scots. With that, the women at the top table retreated back into their cocoon of inner chambers and the swell of discussion rose in pitch. The ordeal, though, was over.

  ***

  ‘What do we have here?’ asked Danforth when they were back in the courtyard. It was late afternoon, the sun creeping over the building. It would, he thought, be shining through the windows of the dowager’s rooms. Still it was cold, the shadows sending shafts of ice up his arms. He drew his cloak close around him. ‘What we have,’ he went on, ‘is a man poisoned by known means. Likely drawn from the castle and murdered in mimicry of the death of a traitor. And to what end? Perhaps to lure away the infant queen’s guards that she might herself be slain.’

  Martin let out a low whistle. ‘Killing a child,’ he said. ‘It’s true evil, to be honest.’

  ‘If it is a matter of politics, then perhaps politics is a true evil,’ smiled Danforth. It was the first smile that had crossed his face since dinner. ‘Yet there is more.’ He filled Martin in on what Diane had told him about Margaret of Denmark and the dowager’s fears of poison, and his thoughts on the victims of the Stewarts being avenged according to their deaths.

  ‘So what does this mean? Why all this ghostly nonsense? Why dig up the Finnart tale and the story of Queen Margaret at all? If that’s what the poisoning was supposed to do.’

  ‘I cannot say for sure. Yet if we are chasing ghosts we are not chasing the killer. Perhaps that is the goal. And if the little Queen Mary should fall prey to a spirit … well, who ever heard of a ghost being tried?’

  ‘But you are sure this Finnart business is – well, a feint? A sleight of hand?’

  ‘Not sure, no. But think on it: Finnart is yesterday’s man. His politics are dead. So are Queen Margaret’s, God rest her. Times have moved on. We should not be looking for vengeful spirits. Who, this day, would profit from Queen Mary’s death?’

  ‘Governor Arran,’ suggested Martin, his voice low. ‘Lord protector and tutor to her Grace. If she goes, he takes the crown for sure.’

  ‘Aye, and all the Hamilton clan. The Douglases too, as long as they master him.’

  ‘But they are King Henry’s creatures,’ said Martin. ‘King Henry wants the queen alive, for his son. If Arran wants the queen dead, it’s without the Douglases. Old Henry wouldn’t be pleased if the child dies and he loses the chance of his son gaining Scotland.’

  Danforth removed his cap with one hand and ran a hand through his hair with the other. ‘What I want is a weapon, some tool that might have struck off Fraser’s arms.’ It felt good to be talking business, even ghastly business. It felt like forcing movement. It meant forgetting his embarrassment. ‘I had hoped the gardener might have revealed some stolen blade.’

  ‘Do you think,’ asked Martin, ‘a sword might have done it?’

  Danforth put his hand on a great unicorn carved on the fountain, drawing it away instantly. ‘Cold,’ he said. ‘A sword. No, I do not think a sword likely. Not unless it were some heavy broadsword.’

  ‘King Henry took off the little Howard lassie’s head with a sword,’ said Martin. ‘It could do it.’

  ‘No, he did not. The cardinal said that Henry called for a sword to slay her when he discovered she had been cuckolding him. Yet she was given the axe.’

  ‘Poor little mite.’

  ‘It was Anne Boleyn’s head that was struck off with a sword. A merciful death.’ The thought of Anne Boleyn, whom he had glimpsed only briefly on the day of her coronation, brought forth the image of Rowan Allen. It had been the Boleyn woman he had pictured after first meeting the flower seller. They had the same eyes, like deep, cold lochs on a winter night.

  ‘Merciful,’ said Martin, barking a shrill laugh. ‘What does that fat barrel of pus know about mercy? He had those ladies butchered like they were slabs of meat. So that he might wench elsewhere. Pig.’

  ‘Aye, England suffers as much as they. Both the fools are better out of it, though we might guess at where they fetched – wait!’ Something Martin said struck him. ‘Butchered like slabs of meat,’ he repeated. ‘By the saints, I think you might have something. We ought to –’

  ‘Here,’ said Martin, ‘is our friend the dark lady.’

  Walking lightly through the main gate was Rowan Allen. She made straight for them, smiling her knowing smile. ‘I was just thinking of you,’ said Danforth, without thinking. Instantly he regretted it. ‘I mean, something led me to think of you. What brings you hither?’

  ‘Say the devil’s name and he shall appear,’ laughed Rowan. ‘You know, Hecate could be summoned thus at crossroads.’

  ‘And which are you?’ asked Danforth. He cursed again. He had wished to follow the thought that had occurred. It would be unwise to speak in front of the girl.

  ‘Just a lass selling flowers.’ She shook the basket, this time filled with purples and blues.

  ‘It would take some witchcraft to have such colours at this time of year,’ said Danforth.

  ‘You would be surprised. It takes no witch’s knowledge to watch the seasons. In this little part of the world we are blessed with sun as winter fades. Blessed to be far enough from both coasts. Of course, they cost more in March than they will next month. The only good thing about this burgh. Anything can grow if you nurture it. Protect it.’

  ‘I care nothing for flowers, mistress,’ said Danforth. ‘I am sorry, but we will have nothing from you today. You might press your luck with th
e queen’s ladies. Though why they should buy when they might simply wait until the gardens here bloom is beyond me.’

  ‘Ignore him,’ said Martin, removing his hat, and giving Danforth a quick, odd look. ‘Are you well? How does your father?’

  ‘He’s not so well,’ she said. ‘Thank you for asking, Mr Martin.’

  ‘Arnaud, remember.’

  ‘Yes, I remember. And … it’s Mr Danforth, isn’t it?’

  ‘That’s right. Mr Danforth.’

  She smiled, rolling her eyes. ‘Are you gentlemen to stay here for some time then? What news of the cardinal and our services?’

  ‘No news,’ snapped Danforth, before Martin could reveal too much. His friend was far too trusting. At the rate he was going, he might as well hang Fraser’s body up on the entrance arch and invite the people of the town to inspect it.

  ‘Tell me, is it true that a man here was murdered?’

  ‘What?’ Danforth cursed. It was almost as if the girl had reached into his mind and plucked out his thoughts. Servants’ talk. The lower orders simply couldn’t keep their mouths shut. ‘No, of course not. This is a palace, not a battlefield.’

  She shrugged. ‘Sorry. It’s only that the burgh is buzzing that some fellow had his legs cut off. Like Procrustes had visited, as my da’ would say.’

  ‘Who?’ asked Martin.

  ‘A Greek villain,’ said Danforth, respect dawning. ‘Son of Poseidon. He invited passing travellers to spend the night in his home, and then cut off their legs if they did not fit the bed.’

  ‘Amazing,’ smiled Martin, his eyes flitting between Danforth and Rowan. Danforth cleared his throat.

  ‘Where did you learn of that?’

  ‘My father,’ shrugged Rowan. ‘He studied at St Andrews in his youth. You are a scholar?’

  ‘I studied at Cardinal College,’ said Danforth. ‘At Oxford. Before it was suppressed and turned to King Henry’s college.’ He did add that he had not taken his degree.

  ‘He’s a proper educated man,’ Martin said, patting Danforth’s shoulder in an irritating gesture. ‘In England, to be fair, but he knows things. More than just schooling, more than just travel and learning from … doing. True books and, uh … pedagogy.’

  Danforth frowned at the doltish look on Martin’s face before turning back to Rowan. ‘But I can assure you there has been nothing of that nature here. No man has had his legs removed, by foul means or fair. Idle gossip,’ he sniffed, ‘is not to borne. Whether cloaked in a show of learning or otherwise.’

  ‘Well, that’s a good thing,’ said Rowan. ‘I grew fearful on the road. Some men were following me up here.’

  ‘What,’ said Martin. ‘Not abusing you, I hope.’ His hand had flown to his belt, though Danforth assumed he had not taken his dagger up to dinner. ‘Not calling you wicked names.’

  ‘No, just a pair of odd-looking men. No so very different from yourselves. They’re back there, I think. I hurried on in here to be rid of them.’ She pointed behind her, in the direction of the guardhouse.

  ‘Well then,’ said Danforth. ‘Be about your business, selling. Not standing here talking. Come, Mr Martin.’ He grasped Martin by the elbow and propelled him towards the great gate. ‘Good day to you, Mistress Allen.’

  ‘Good day,’ she said, ‘if you should like to speak again, Mr Danforth, just think of me.’

  12

  Unsurprisingly, the narrow hall that led into the guard chamber stank of urine. Danforth picked his way through on tiptoes, holding the hem of his robes like a girl picking her way through a flowerbed. It opened into the guardhouse, a large room fitted with now-familiar hammocks. He heard the raised voices before he spotted their owners.

  ‘Blast it,’ he hissed to Martin, creeping behind him. Before them stood Cam Hardie and Geordie Simms, the Douglas-emblazoned henchmen who had spied on them at Dalkeith. Hardie was speaking to the porter, one hand on his hip and the other brandishing a sealed envelope. Simms was by the wall, stroking a longbow with a hairy finger. At the sound of their entrance, the two men wheeled. A broad grin spread over Hardie’s face.

  ‘Ah, the cardinal’s slaves,’ he said, throwing his head back to set the blonde curls tumbling. He smoothed them with a palm and thrust out his chest. ‘Doing the Lord’s work, I take it?’

  ‘Who are you calling a slave,’ hissed Martin. ‘You insult us, sir.’

  ‘And with good reason,’ returned Hardie. Danforth clucked his tongue. He was in no mood for a stag-fight between a couple of preening young bucks, even if one of them was his friend. He looked instead at Simms, whom he judged the more dangerous of the two. The man’s hand had fixed on the crossbow.

  The strangulated voice of the porter cut the atmosphere. ‘Please leave that be,’ he said to Simms. ‘It’s … it belongs to the palace.’ In response Simms grunted and spat.

  ‘To what do we owe the honour of seeing you fellows again?’ asked Danforth. Hardie smiled and held up his envelope.

  ‘Do you wish to know what this is?’

  ‘Not especially,’ lied Danforth. He folded his arms and peered down his nose.

  ‘Aye you do. And you’ll find out soon enough. We come,’ he announced, ‘to see her Grace Queen Marie. Not to trade words with you nothings.’ He turned to the porter. ‘Where is she? Our masters wish the governor’s command delivered forthwith. Without delay.’

  ‘Your masters?’ asked Martin, his voice turned cloying. ‘Your great English-fed puppet men.’

  Simms took a step forward. A fist flew at Martin’s face, knocking him to the ground. The guard found some strength at last, as Danforth dropped to the stone floor. ‘No fighting in the guardhouse!’ he cried. ‘Get out, all of you, or I’ll call the depute.’

  ‘Give me your hand,’ whispered Danforth. Martin looked stunned, a spot of blood appearing on his upper lip. Hardie’s let out a cackling laugh.

  ‘Bastard struck me,’ said Martin, dazed. ‘I’ll get you for that, you dumb prick, you great ox, you–’

  ‘Not today you won’t, son,’ said the guard. ‘Away and clean yourself up.’ Danforth helped him to his feet.

  ‘No, not today,’ laughed Hardie. ‘Not any day. You dolts need to learn how things work now. The whole machine of the world has turned. The Hamiltons and the Douglases rule in Scotland this day and every day. And the great earl our master has a measure of interest in your work,’ he smiled. ‘We are lodging in this burgh. You’ll be seeing us again.’

  Danforth turned a dark look on him. ‘You fellows,’ he murmured, ‘your masters. Both the Earl of Angus and that brother of his. They are like fruit trees grown over a stinking… a fetid swamp. Aye, they might be all rich now, their branches all filled with fruit. But only foul insects feed off them. And when they’ve had their fill they will return to the swamp. And the trees shall tumble.’ He turned on his heel, pushing Martin in front of him, the younger man’s nose buried in his elbow, leaving Hardie and Simms looking at one another in angry confusion.

  ‘That was well said, Simon,’ mumbled Martin through his sleeve.

  ‘Keep walking,’ said Danforth.

  ***

  Danforth saw Martin washed at the fountain and, after establishing that his nose wasn’t broken, told him to lie down in their room for a while. He was eager to know what message the Douglas men had brought but didn’t dare risk another confrontation. Luckily, being punched in the face seemed to have made his friend more amenable. For all the boy spoke with a sharp tongue and a broad mouth, he was for from a fighter. Simms’ fist seemed to have brought that reality home, and he retired meekly enough to lick his wounds. Better, thought Danforth, that it was a balled fist. It might have been a dirk, a stiletto, any manner of deadlier weapon.

  Danforth warmed his hands by one of the now-lit braziers in the courtyard. He nodded as he saw Rowan Allen leave but made no effort to speak further with her. As he watched her departing back he began to regret that. The girl knew something of the antique myths, a favourite subject of his, and
it might have passed the time to match wits with her. Then again, his stern inner voice reminded him, he was not in Linlithgow to bandy words with women, however much they seemed to have been intruding on his thoughts for the past month. It was a useless avenue anyway. His married life was a thing of the past, like his childhood or his university days. His current life was service. If God had wished him to beget children, that is what would have happened. His wife and child would still be alive, he would still be living in London, everything would be different. Their deaths had pushed him in another direction, and that was that.

  Or, at least, that was the old charm – the charm which had always worked in the past. As he recited it silently, it felt suddenly hollow. It was, he realised, a shield he had built for himself long ago. Without his realising, it had been gradually chipped away at. The stern voice, the lecturing voice, had lost something of its intensity, now whining at him rather than berating him.

  The late afternoon thickened, the flames quivering in a light, cold breeze. Three men left the stable block, their heads bowed in conversation. At they passed a brazier, Danforth identified them: Gibb, the horse master, Forrest, and a figure he did not recognise: a slim, serious-looking man with a neatly trimmed beard and a sedate black suit. He shook hands with Forrest, but Gibb shook his head wearily, trooping back to the stables. Forrest saw the stranger out of the main gate, and then stalked off, his eyes cast downwards. When he had gone, Danforth slinked around the edge of the yard, and entered the stable.

  ‘Good day, Mr Gibb,’ he announced, making his voice as airy as possible. Gibb jumped before speaking.

  ‘Good day, sir,’ he said. The jocular grin he had wore on their first meeting seemed tempered. ‘What can I do for you?’

  ‘I just came to check on the horses.’ Danforth made a show of engaging with Woebegone, easing Gibb up with horse talk. Soon enough it seemed to reanimate him, bringing a merry light to his large features. At length, he said, ‘I did not notice this beast before. It is, I think, Mr Fraser’s?’