Fire & Faith

by Steven Veerapen

  ‘Aye,’ said Gibb. ‘If you could advise us what’s to be done with her. We can’t keep her on the dowager’s accounts, not if Mr Fraser had family that’ll be wanting her.’

  ‘Mr Fraser had no family. A great shame. Perhaps you might tell her Highness that the horse is a gift. Or, leastways, that its value might be used to cover the cost of Mr Fraser’s funeral, whenever that might be.’

  ‘When will that be, sir, do you know?’

  ‘I cannot say,’ said Danforth. ‘As long as the Douglas brothers and our lord protector keep my master in thrall, it cannot be. But tell me, the night Fraser was slain, did you see anyone coming into the palace who was unusual?’

  ‘How do you mean, unusual?’

  ‘Who was … well, not part of the palace, not with the dowager’s house or the servants of the place itself.’

  ‘No, sir. It was a usual night. Quiet. Not like now, with everyone closing their doors. The bruit is that the devil has been invited in,’ he said, shivering. ‘Don’t hold with that myself. I can’t, or I wouldn’t sleep.’

  ‘And so no one required their horse stabled that night?’

  ‘No sir, most definitely not.’

  ‘I see Mr Forrest’s visitor had no horse with him.’

  ‘His … oh, he stabled his horse in the burgh.’

  ‘That seems a waste. I could have sworn he had been in here.’

  ‘He was. They were.’ Gibb’s voice had flattened. ‘He’s away now.’

  ‘Who was it, I wonder, that Mr Forrest would wish to meet in a stable?’

  ‘You had better ask the depute himself. I’m no clype.’

  ‘It was,’ pressed Danforth, ‘then someone he would not wish it known that he meets with?’

  ‘I … no,’ said Gibb, confidence blooming. ‘No, the fellow was a priest, a deacon, a good Catholic schoolmaster. From East Lothian. A friend of Mr Forrest’s. Just bringing news, is all.’

  ‘I see. I marvel that he does not show his friend into his own chamber. Or meet with him in the town, in the full glare of the sun.’ Danforth shrugged. ‘Not my business, of course, I merely wish to ensure that her Highness is kept securely.’

  ‘Mr Forrest can better do that, sir, with his men. And like I said, the man was a priest. Hasn’t enough to keep him occupied, I’d reckon, with your master still held and no services. He can visit his friends, can’t he?’

  Danforth sucked in his cheeks and nodded. The big horse master was an easy mark: good-natured, and therefore willing to have information drawn. But then, a savage internal voice added, it might be that the man was a skilled actor, playing him whilst giving every appearance of being played. ‘Naturally, naturally. What was the fellow’s name?’ At this, Gibb did look more unsure. He peered behind Danforth, then locked his gaze once more, shrugging.

  ‘Knox,’ he said. ‘Father John, from Haddington.’

  ‘Cannot say as I know him,’ said Danforth. ‘I shall remember him to the cardinal when matters are more assured. Perhaps his Grace can do something for him. Well, thank you for taking such good care of the horses, Mr Gibb. You are doing a job of work indeed.’ He bowed his way out and took up his station next to the far brazier.

  He could judge the time passing only by the deepening of shadows. Eventually he saw Hardie and Simms being led out Anthony Guthrie, the usher bending their ears and pointing about the courtyard, at the carved heraldry, at the fountain, at the oriel windows. When the jutting finger turned towards him, Danforth hopped back around the brazier, his head down but his eyes up. The two Douglas men left through the main entrance, and Guthrie turned back towards the royal apartments, skipping up into the southwest tower.

  The appearance of the men was unnerving. Not unexpected, but unnerving. For the first time Danforth began to doubt the wisdom of becoming entangled in high politics. It was exciting, to be sure – a vote of confidence from his master – but it gave one the feeling of being a very small creature scampering around the feet of great lions. He shook his head clear, inhaling the scent of clean burning. It was his duty. Scotland had given him purpose when the world he had known in England crumbled. If things were unstable now, he had his part to play in settling them, however minor. To think he had come north all those years ago hoping to either find true faith or to be slain in his boots – whichever came first. Back then he had had no particular preference. How times changed.

  The door of the southwest tower opened again, and Danforth stepped out. Not Guthrie this time, but Diane and Mathieu. He stepped out and crossed to them, bowing his head before speaking.

  ‘Mr Danforth,’ piped Mathieu. ‘Where’s Martin?’

  ‘Mr Martin,’ said Danforth, ‘is resting. He was … he was overtired.’

  ‘Aww.’ Mathieu kicked at the cobbled ground, as though his ball was there. ‘But he’ll be about tomorrow?’

  ‘He shall be hard at work tomorrow, as shall you, I trust. Mathieu, would you be so good as to give me and Mistress Beauterne leave to speak privately?’

  ‘Eh? Are you going to ask her to marry you?’

  ‘What?’ spat Danforth. ‘What nonsense runs through that foolish head, boy? Off you go.’

  Mathieu gave them both a measured smirk and then ran off, his tabard tails trailing. ‘I apologise, mistress,’ said Danforth. ‘I have no idea what wild thoughts run through the empty heads of little children.’

  ‘Never mind,’ smiled Diane. He noticed the smile seemed a little tight. ‘Mathieu thinks every adult must be married. He picks up ideas out of the everywhere.’

  ‘Well, he ought to grow out of foolishness if he hopes to get on. Marriage, indeed.’

  ‘Indeed,’ said Diane, and this time her smile seemed less fixed. ‘What do you wish of me?’

  ‘Those men, the Douglas creatures. They have been with the dowager?’

  ‘Oui.’ She looked towards the castle gateway. ‘Have they gone?’

  ‘Aye. The one with the yellow hair had with him some message.’

  ‘The fair one?’

  ‘If you like. Might you know what that message was?’

  Diane gave him a hard look. ‘Sir, I don’t know that I should say. It was for her Grace’s ears.’

  ‘I quite understand. But you must know that Martin and I have the dowager’s especial trust. It is important that I know what goes on, that I might better serve her.’

  She looked up into the gloom, towards the queen’s rooms, and then turned to him. Her mouth opened. Closed. And then she said, her voice pitched low, ‘the men are fools. They bring news that her Grace is forbidden from leaving this place. She may not go to Stirling, as she has long wished, but stay in this place until she knows the governor’s further pleasure. She is truly trapped.’

  ‘Was she told why?’

  ‘She believes it to be King Henry’s pleasure, advertised by the Douglases. The governor does not think the English king would like the little queen safe behind Stirling’s stout walls. He wishes to be seen before the whole world to be Henry’s man in Scotland.’

  That damned Arran, thought Danforth. Governor and protector of Scotland, but dancing to the tune of England’s king. ‘Is the dowager greatly troubled?’ he asked.

  ‘I think …’ again, she cast a look around the courtyard. Danforth followed her gaze. Only a few domestic servants moved about, none of them interested in the man and woman talking by the brazier. ‘I think her Grace is saddened by remaining in this place. Now it is so unsafe. Yet … well, I say those two men are fools. They think their masters the Douglas brothers control the governor, but the queen has let it be known that she might let her daughter marry Arran’s son and heir. And so our lord governor wants the little queen taken to Edinburgh, to his possession. The Douglas men are so busy cheering their puppet, they forget they are puppets of King Henry. Arran thinks to play them now, as they have long been playing him. Exactly as Queen Marie has hoped.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Danforth, understanding. ‘Her Grace is turning Arran away from the Douglases
, though they are too blind to see it. If Arran thinks the child might be bride to his heir, he will not countenance Henry taking charge of her. He is now feigning to do the Douglases and their master Henry’s bidding, whilst pursuing his own ambitions.’

  ‘Her Grace is a wise woman,’ smiled Diane.

  ‘She is that.’

  ‘But her troubles are more pressing.’ A little frown creased her brow. ‘I wished to let her know of what you said, sir. Of the danger of poison.’

  ‘But that is good. It shall keep her safer in her mind.’

  ‘No,’ she said, shaking her head. ‘I was a fool. I told the usher, Mr Guthrie, to take the news to her.’

  ‘What?’ asked Danforth. ‘You must know that man is an inveterate rumour-monger. A – a monster of verbosity! What were you thinking, woman?’

  ‘I thought only that it might come better from a man than a frail woman,’ she said, holding up her hands. They were very white, very small. ‘But he has terrified the queen so, she is all agog. Like you say, at sixes and sevens, from his chatter.’ Danforth stared. She looked ready for tears. A sudden suspicion of her came upon him and he brushed it aside. She was guileless, her face open and innocent. ‘In her present mood, she is so terrified she might be willing to send her daughter anywhere but here.’

  ‘There, there,’ he tutted. ‘There is no harm done. Her Grace is a woman of rare sense. Not,’ he added, by way of admonition, ‘like some.’

  ‘Still, she would have this killer caught. She desires more than anything the sure safety of her child.’

  ‘Naturally. If nothing is done soon, she might have to give up the little queen to Arran.’

  Danforth pictured the baby girl, sent to Holyrood to be brought up under the governor’s tutelage. It would separate the mother from the daughter, likely. But it would also separate the Douglases from Arran; the Earl of Angus and his brother would surely lose King Henry’s favour. ‘So Stirling is scrubbed out, and Holyrood is Queen Mary’s fate. Poor Queen Marie. She wishes her daughter safe, but not sold in marriage to Governor Arran’s whelp.’ It must, he thought, to be an unpleasant thing to be parent to a royal child. During his own daughter’s brief life, he had thought only to have her married when the time came to some wealthy son of a good family. He thought of holding her, of owning a life. Then came the inevitable remembrance of plague-ridden London, banks of smoke choking the breath from the body whenever one stepped outside. He screwed his eyes shut.

  Another thought struck. If Arran wanted Mary for his son, he would do nothing to harm her. He needed her alive. Similarly, if the Douglases wanted her for King Henry, they would not be out to hurt her. So who might aim at her life? Why? It was an ugly puzzle.

  ‘Well,’ he said at length, ‘the dowager might grumble, but there are worse places to be than Edinburgh.’

  ‘You will find this murderer, though? You will make this place safe for our young sovereign?’

  ‘I vow it shall be so,’ said Danforth, hoping that saying the words would forge them into reality. Full darkness had come on. He glanced upwards and around. The four ranges of the palace, studded with countless blazing windows, stared back. He wondered who might be watching him.

  13

  Shame and embarrassment seemed to have ignited a fighting spirit in Martin. Danforth did not like it. Early the next morning he insisted that the pair visit the church of St Michael’s, immediately inside the decorated palace entrance arch, but before the building proper. Services were still suspended, but the atmosphere, he hoped, would breed calm in his friend. As they bustled through the courtyard, Rab Gibb strode out of the stables. ‘Are you off, lads?’ he bellowed. ‘I can saddle your beasts now.’

  ‘No, Mr Gibb,’ said Danforth. ‘We are just going for a walk.’

  ‘As you like. Your fellow was taken off this morning. Some servants took him. I spared good horses and one of the dowager’s own chariots.’

  ‘What? What fellow?’

  ‘Mr Fraser,’ said Gibb, one hand on the doorway of the stable. ‘Taken off to Edinburgh. He can lie there until he can be buried.’

  ‘Oh,’ said Danforth. ‘I see.’ He had virtually forgotten about Fraser. The man was nothing but an empty shell now. It was a shameful thought, just how quickly the dead can become nothing, their physical remains either puzzles to be solved or nuisances. Fraser had become both. ‘Thank you.’ Gibb waved a hand and disappeared back into his stable, leaving Danforth to lead Martin out of the front entrance and towards the church.

  ‘It irks me, Simon,’ he said. ‘That ox – it was – it was bad form. Dishonourable. To hit a man without warning. It wasn’t the behaviour of a gentleman, but a common street brute. That’s what he is, a common street brute. They both are.’

  Danforth let him babble, not breaking his stride. The church was made of the same pale sandstone as the palace, but it had not been washed in king’s gold. Instead, it was cast in a more sedate hew, its tower rising to form an elaborate crown steeple. He tried the iron handle of the door. Locked. He hissed in irritation, turning to Martin. He winced, seeing the purple bruise around his eye given fresh lividity by the sullen grey sky. ‘It seems our priest has flown the nest.’

  ‘Probably off wenching,’ said Martin, scuffing at the stone steps. ‘Nothing else for him to do.’

  ‘Bite your tongue. I shall have none of this ugly talk, just because you are sore.’ He looked back towards the palace, then downhill towards the town, hesitation stalling him. ‘Perhaps a walk in to the churchyard. We can speak freely there.’ Martin only shrugged.

  They walked around the side of the building. A low stone wall separated the graveyard from the palace grounds. ‘A fair place to be laid to rest,’ said Danforth. The laws were all clipped. Here and there were some ancient oaks, stately, barren sentinels amongst the wasteland of the dead.

  ‘I’d like to put that Simms ox in the grave.’

  ‘Vengeance again, eh?’

  ‘Whatever you wish to call it.’

  ‘You remind me of what I wish to discuss,’ said Danforth. Martin had been sleeping when he’d left Diane the night before. He had felt an almost superstitious disinclination to talk inside the palace walls earlier in the morning. ‘I spoke again with the lass Mistress Beauterne last night.’

  ‘Oh?’ asked Martin, something kindling. ‘Did you, aye?’

  ‘Yes. After you fell into Mr Simms’ hand.’ Martin threw him an angry look, his fist balling and striking his thigh. ‘I discovered what the Douglas lads were here about.’ He paused, letting Martin digest this, before telling him of the queen dowager’s confinement in the palace, and the progress of her attempts to lure Governor Arran into believing the infant Queen Mary might be wed to his son.

  ‘So … if Arran wants the little queen alive. And if the Hamiltons need her alive too … then who is it might want her dead?’

  ‘I cannot say,’ frowned Danforth. The question had kept him up most of the night. A motive was what he needed – but with that need brought the danger of inventing one. And if the intended victim was a queen, and queen of a European nation, then there might be more potential motives than there were hairs on the infant’s head. ‘We are back to vengeance again. Or the ghosts of the past. It none of it makes a whit of sense. Arran might stand to gain the crown from her death, but it would be a great risk. Far safer to have her alive and wed to his son. All done in good order, no scandal. And the Douglases too – they are King Henry’s men, working to control Arran, but only to gain delivery of the child into England. If she dies – hell, even if she is promised to Arran – their credit with Henry falls.’

  ‘Wait,’ said Martin. ‘Hold on. Look – we know this now. Those two came from the Earl of Arran and George Douglas only yesterday, to inform the queen. Neither Arran nor the Douglas brothers could have known that the dowager would hold out promise of her child’s hand to the son of Arran when Fraser was killed.’

  Danforth’s eyebrows rose. ‘By Jupiter, Arnaud, you are right. Of
course, you are right.’ It was so obvious he had not even considered it. He had been so engrossed in the ever-changing nature of events that he had not stopped to consider that their killer must have been acting at a specific moment, unaware of what might happen next. He might have planned to bring about the baby’s death only to discover he needed her alive. ‘So, Arran, with or without the Douglases, might have wished for the child to die yesterday and found he needs her alive today.’

  ‘Aye,’ said Martin, grinning. On his bruised face the smile appeared almost comical. ‘It doesn’t reveal the killer, but at least we don’t close our minds to his identity.’ He stepped past Danforth and stood before one of the big oaks.

  ‘Perhaps Arran wished the death of the little queen. Then he would be nearest heir and take the throne for himself. As nearest prince of the blood – you know, second person of the realm – it would be his with or without Henry of England. But now it is clear she might marry England’s Prince Edward or Arran’s little lad, and so she must live.’

  ‘Yes,’ agreed Martin. ‘Aye, better he takes power through his son’s great marriage than through bloodshed. Lord protector or not, all Scotland would rise against him if it were ever suspected he had had their child queen murdered.’

  ‘Ah,’ said Danforth. ‘It might be so. Still it might be that an enemy of Arran might be the killer, wishing to set him up.’

  Martin, who had been raising a finger to illustrate his own point, paused it in mid-air. As Danforth’s word sank in, he lowered it. ‘Jesus how can we be expected to follow any of this? We are arguing round and about in circles.’

  ‘We cannot. We can only hope that the simplest solution thus far is true. Arran sought the queen’s death last week, and planned for it, sending some agent of his – any of those Hamilton men at dinner – to find means of exposing the child to attack. This week, the governor wishes the child to live, since Queen Marie has offered her daughter’s hand to his son.’

  ‘Do you believe that, Simon?’

  ‘For the present, I must. So must you.’