Fire & Faith

by Steven Veerapen

  ‘Then let’s leave Mr Danforth to turn out his pick.’

  Martin laughed. Rowan had wit, as well learning. If only he could get Danforth to see that. He tested him arm, bending it at the elbow. ‘Tssss,’ he hissed through clenched teeth. ‘Did you get anything to relieve the pain?’

  ‘Aye. So hold your tongue and let me work.’

  She gave him the medicine, rubbing in the ointments before bandaging him up. ‘You have a tender touch, mistress,’ he said when she had finished.

  ‘Don’t get any ideas, sonny,’ she said, and he blushed.

  ‘I wasn’t thinking of me.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘No.’ He took a deep breath. ‘Look here, you’re a clever woman.’ She gave him a tight smile. ‘You should belong to someone – to someone like Mr Danforth.’ He drew back in the cot to see the effect, expecting some cutting remark. Instead she looked sad. ‘Don’t you like him?’

  ‘He seems pleasant enough.’

  ‘He is pleasant enough. Uh, what I mean – I mean he–’

  ‘Does Mr Danforth have any especial liking for me?’ she cut in.

  ‘He will. Like I said, he’s a clever man, full of wisdom. Grave in his judgements.’

  ‘He’s made no mark of his favour, shown no sign.’

  ‘Well, he’s also an idiot.’

  They laughed, the sound rising to meet the cracked plaster ceiling. When it died down, they sat awhile in silence. When Rowan spoke again, he voice was low. The usual bravado seemed to have been damped, and she looked down. ‘Who’d want the black bitch of Linlithgow? Who’d want a clever wife, full of her da’s tales of the ancients?’

  ‘A clever man. A brave man. A man like old Danforth,’ said Martin, eagerness lending him animation. ‘He is a man who would protect a woman’s name, guard her against vile tongues.’

  ‘Then he might show it.’

  ‘Have you shown him?’

  ‘Shown him what?’ she asked, humour returning to her face – a mock aggrieved look.

  ‘That you might be willing to take him. He’s … Mr Danforth is a strange one. He’s loyal, he values good order and service.’

  ‘Yet he never married?’

  ‘He was married in England. She died. His child too.’

  ‘Oh. I didn’t know that.’ Again, the humour faded. ‘That’s sad.’

  ‘He was a sad man. For a long time, to be honest. But he’s coming around. I’ve been helping him. For friendship’s sake. And I reckon it’s time he joined the world as an honest man. A married one.’

  ‘Well I shan’t force anything.’

  ‘But you are interested? If he knew that, maybe he’d find courage.’

  ‘A stout heart needs no assurances. I want no faint-hearted Paris.’

  ‘Aye,’ mused Martin, yawning. ‘Keep that up. You’ll get him.’

  ‘You assume I want him.’

  ‘I say what I see.’ Martin shrugged, before letting out another stifled yelp.

  ‘And what you feel,’ said Rowan. They both laughed again.

  ***

  Queen Marie sat scratching the arms of her chair. Dark pouches bulged under her eyes and, as Danforth spoke, she rhythmically whacked the back of her head off of the gilded wood that rose up behind her. He revealed all that he knew, confirming his belief that she had been right: there was a plot against her daughter. The true aim of all that had happened – all that was happening – was the end and overthrow of the House of Stewart.

  ‘Mr Martin, though – he shall live?’

  ‘He shall, your Highness.’ Danforth was on bended knee again. At his side was Forrest. He had been reluctant at first to speak so openly in front of the depute but could think of no way of asking to speak with Marie alone. How did one tell a queen that she might not trust the man in charge of her and her child’s safety? Besides, he reasoned, Forrest had touched the infected man, grasping at his hood. He would not have done so had he known the danger that lurked beneath.

  ‘An arrow,’ said Marie. She was not flanked by Madame LeBoeuf, nor any other women. She saw Danforth and Forrest alone in the bedchamber. It was, whether she intended or not, a mark of high favour and trust. Still, her face was ashen in the menacing firelight. ‘It happens again.’

  ‘What happens, madam?’ asked Forrest.

  ‘The past, it torments us. You say this creature wears a blue robe?’

  ‘Aye,’ said Danforth. ‘As was said to be worn by the spirit of St Andrew when he appeared to James IV in the churchyard where Mr Martin fell.’ Marie nodded impatiently. Danforth recalled it had been her who first recounted the story.

  ‘Yes, yes. But there is still more. Queen Margaret Tudor herself claimed visions before Flodden. Of the body of her husband, pierced with arrows. You have heard this?’

  ‘No,’ said Danforth.

  ‘Aye,’ said Forrest.

  ‘Well, it is a story known to many. An old tale. I have collected many of the like. Every castle, every palace, every church has its own tales of the visions and hauntings of the great who once walked within its walls. But until now they have been only stories. Now it seems the line is being crossed. Between this life and the one hereafter. And this message brought by a walking corpse: a message from France. Remember Madeleine. You know who that is?’

  Danforth stared at the carpet in silence, tracing the patterns made by passing feet. Queen Madeleine had been Marie’s predecessor, a daughter of the French king who had married James V only to die within weeks of setting foot in Scotland. Danforth had known a woman some weeks before who had adopted the name. She had been killed too. People cast long shadows.

  ‘Queen Madeleine died in Holyrood, madam,’ said Forrest. ‘Not here.’

  ‘Yes, and so I am warned that my child will not be safe in Holyrood. Nor even France. Madeleine carried her illness from there, born in her father’s guts, it was whispered. This dead spirit is reminding me that my daughter is safe nowhere, not in Holyrood with Arran, nor in the disease-pit of France’s court. Queen Madeleine’s death was blamed on her father by my husband, and on my husband by her father. Another death at the hands of a Stewart king. Another ghost crying for vengeance against my daughter’s line.’

  ‘No, madam,’ Forrest rumbled. ‘No spirit. If it kills, if it wounds, it can be killed and wounded. It’s a man. Playing on your terrors.’

  ‘I agree,’ said Danforth. ‘I think it passing likely that our killer is using the stories of old to distract us. We cannot hunt and capture a spirit, but we can do a man. Yet if the palace and its people are hiding from shadows, locked in fear, he might move unseen. And if he is seen, dressed in his evil garb, people might only cry ghost. They might cower away, run from him.’

  Marie took her hand from the arm of her chair and kneaded her temple. ‘Then who is he? Why is he doing this? This, Mr Danforth, is what I asked you to discover. Thus far you have only told me that which I might suspect.’

  Danforth felt himself redden. It was true. He had accomplished little. From the start, the dowager had suspected that the murderer sought her daughter’s life. He had come around to her way of thinking, but that buttered no parsnips. Nor did it make her daughter any safer.

  ‘My men now surround the queen day and night. In her nursery, in her outer rooms. Madam, I have a man even in your oratory. She could not be got at even by one passing through here. Believe me, that thing downstairs never had the smallest hope of getting at the queen’s wet nurse, still less the lass herself.’

  ‘Yes, Forrest. You do well.’

  Danforth pouted, his head lowered again. It was true; in coming to the dowager’s bedchamber, he had not even had to go through the performance of admittance by halberd-wielding guards. He and Forrest had simply marched through the queen’s apartments after seeing some domestic servants, their faces shrouded in linens, carry the body of the infected man out for burning, or to be dumped in the loch. ‘It might have been better had I been allowed to question the fellow,’ he said. There had bee
n something maniacal in the speed with which Forrest had slaughtered the diseased man, something horrific in his quickness to kill. It was his job, naturally, to protect the palace and its people, but still. To see a man die, his blood spurting in a red jet as the dagger was withdrawn. It was callous. ‘Mr Forrest here slew him before he could scarce take breath.’

  ‘And a good thing too,’ snapped Forrest. ‘What, you’d have had him bringing his vile vapours right inside the walls? Infecting us all, killing us all?’

  ‘I should have taken him outside,’ Danforth protested. ‘Found out what he was about. It is a strange method of assassination – weak. More like a warning. Yet with his tongue stopped we might never know!’

  ‘Do not both of you argue here. It is bootless. The man is dead,’ said Marie. As she spoke, the door opened behind Danforth and she looked past them.

  Closing it, Mathieu entered, bowed, and then smiled up. ‘I’m back, your Highness. Je reviens.’

  ‘Scots, Mathieu,’ said Marie, smiling back. ‘In front of the gentlemen. You wish to speak both languages in their places if you hope to work well in either realm.’

  ‘Aye, madam. Sorry.’

  ‘You have been to the place?’ Forrest had ordered Mathieu to the lazar house of St Magdalene near the burgh. Underneath the blue cloak, the dead man had been wearing the smock of one of the place’s inmates. The boy nodded, holding out a letter. Marie nodded for Danforth to take it. ‘What did the masters of the hospital say?’

  ‘Only that one of their patients ran away,’ said Mathieu.

  ‘They gave you this letter?’

  ‘No, madam. They found it in his cell. They all have cells there, they said, because the folk there would swive each other otherwise and make sick babies. Mad ones.’ The dowager crossed herself.

  ‘And so they did not know who had spirited the poor creature away, brought him to the palace?’

  ‘No, madam.’ Mathieu beamed, the scrubbed face shining. He had no idea, thought Danforth, of the severity of the situation.

  ‘Pray read the letter, Mr Danforth.’

  Danforth cleared his throat. It was difficult to make out the writing. It was oddly written, certainly, as though the writer had used the wrong hand, but the light from the fire was also poor. He bowed his head, stood, and moved closer to the grate. ‘Sir. With this letter is a cloak. Disguise yourself in it well and gain access to the queen’s wet nurse at the palace of Linlithgow, there to deliver to her this message: I CARRY A WARNING FROM FRANCE. REMEMBER QUEEN MADELEINE AND ALL WHO HAVE DIED AT THE HANDS OF THIS REALM’S JAMESES. A PLAGUE ON THE STEWARTS ALL.’ There was a space beneath the message, filled in with some strangely-careful doodling of the gate of the palace. Beneath that, Danforth read on. ‘Seal this message to the nurse with a kiss and your own kin will be rewarded still further than that which I have already given you. St Andrew.’

  Danforth looked up. Marie had remained expressionless throughout, but Forrest’s face had turned thunderous. His hands were balled. Mathieu simply looked confused. ‘Did they,’ asked Marie, ‘find anything else in the man’s cell?’

  ‘Some money,’ said Mathieu. ‘Coins. But they wouldn’t give me those. I asked. Said the man should have had no money – said he must have stolen it from them. They were evil-looking people, madam, all in masks.’

  ‘I see. The letter states that the poor creature had kin.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Danforth. ‘Your own kin will be rewarded still further. Who delivered this letter, boy? Did they say?’

  ‘No, sir. They didn’t know. They said they didn’t know he could read even.’

  ‘Mathieu,’ said Marie, ‘go back to the place find out who the man’s kinfolk are. It is not their fault. We shall give them something.’ A faint smile passed her face. ‘Perhaps one day my daughter might need the loyalty of her subjects.’

  But Mathieu had turned pale. Without warning, he began sobbing. ‘What is it, mon petit chou? Why tears?’

  ‘I don’t want to go back there, madam. There’s folk dying there.’ And then, as though realisation dawned, he turned wide eyes on the letter quivering in Danforth’s hands. ‘And I touched it, madam, I touched it. I touched the sick man’s letter. Am … am I to die?’

  Stirred by the boy’s hysteria, Danforth looked down himself. Before he could speak, Marie had launched herself out of her seat and stepped over. She took the letter from his hand, touched it to her face, and then cast it in the fire. ‘You see?’ she said. ‘Gone. Nothing. Dry your tears, my boy. He cannot harm you, and neither can that place. Tomorrow you shall have merriment, what say you?’ She looked around at Danforth and Forrest. ‘We shall finally have our interlude tomorrow. We shall all be lighter and take our pleasure in the great hall. Go now, Mathieu. Be brave, as befits a royal servant.’

  Still the boy sniffled, dragging his feet as he made to leave.

  ‘I’ll go,’ said Forrest. ‘The lad’s traipsed around enough today. I’ll go.’

  ‘No,’ Danforth interjected. ‘I shall go and speak to these people. Mr Forrest, I imagine you are required in the palace.’

  ‘So … I don’t have to?’ asked Mathieu, one hand on the door’s iron ring.

  Marie’s voice carried over all. ‘For the love of … No, Mathieu. Go off and find something else to do.’ He scooted from the room, apparently eager to be gone before the dowager changed her mind. ‘Mr Danforth, you go and discover what has gone on in that lazar house. Be safe.’

  Danforth resisted the urge to smirk. Instead, he said, ‘do you think it wise, your Highness, to have a company assembled in the great hall tomorrow, at such a time as this? If you must stay here, at King Henry’s pleasure – or the governor’s, you must be kept in sure safety. We all must.’

  ‘I think it necessary. I am weary, Mr Danforth. Weary of gloom. Weary of troubles. Mr Forrest here shall see to our safety.’ At this, Forrest turned a smirk on Danforth.

  ‘I pray you again to discover this murderer and put an end to all our troubles. He has used a poor diseased creature as a weapon. And a bow. And a dagger. And whatever he used on poor Mr Fraser. Have you discovered even that?’

  ‘No,’ began Danforth. ‘But I have some idea–’

  ‘I wish more than some idea, sir.’ A white hand, long-fingered, was held out as Marie regained her seat. Danforth and Forrest took turns hovering over it before following Mathieu outside.

  Together they began progressing through the inner chamber, the usual conglomeration of heads rising to watch them. Someone had set up a hopscotch game, and the man playing paused, one leg in red breeches held in the air. Forrest tutted. Under his breath he whispered, ‘foolish games. Foolish thoughts. Foolish superstitions. Damned popery.’

  ‘What was that?’ asked Danforth, from between gritted teeth.

  ‘None of yours.’

  As they neared the door to the outer chamber, Guthrie appeared, grasping at Danforth’s elbow. He gave Forrest a strange look, half-scared, half-irritated. ‘Mr Danforth, sir, might I have a word with you? It won’t take long, but it might be important. Heh.’ Danforth shook him off, not even bothering to turn. He had no interest in the warbling of the irritating usher and was still less in the mood to tolerate the annoying little laugh the man sounded after every sentence.

  ‘Not now. Some other time, perhaps.’

  ‘As you wish,’ said Guthrie, stepping back.

  Danforth and Forrest continued walking together, taking the spiral stairs downwards. Danforth pressed on about security arrangements for the dowager’s play, about the number of guards that might be sacrificed from watching the queen. Forrest returned only one-word answers and the occasional grunt of approbation. Still, Danforth kept it up. He did not yet know where Forrest slept, and so followed him back to his chamber, on the same floor and in the same suite as his and Martin’s. Forrest stopped and turned when he reached the door, one hand on the iron handle.

  ‘If that’s all, sir, you might be off and doing her Grace’s bidding. I can or
der my own guards without your suggestions.’

  ‘As you wish. Well, then, I shall bid you good day.’ His stomach growled. The northeast tower was ahead. ‘Perhaps I shall fetch something to eat and drink. For me and Mr Martin. Where is the kitchen?’

  ‘Up the turnpike,’ said Forrest, motioning towards the tower. ‘First floor. Goodbye.’

  As he opened the door and slid inside, Danforth saw something gleaming on the floor. Before he could make it out clearly, the door slammed shut. Though he could not swear to it, he thought it looked very much like a crossbow.

  17

  ‘Butchered like slabs of meat,’ Martin had said. He had been talking about Anne Boleyn and Katherine Howard, but he might have been talking about Sir James Hamilton of Finnart, or Thomas Cromwell, or, thought Danforth, crossing himself, the blessed Sir Thomas More or Bishop Fisher.

  He moved away from Forrest’s door and opened that of his and Martin’s chamber, intending to tell him what he had seen. However, he found himself intruding on laughter. Rowan was standing by his cot, lining up the vials they had procured from the apothecary. Martin was still lying down.

  ‘Good day again, Mr Danforth,’ she said. ‘What news? There was such a tumult, and no one knows what has happened. Who was that fellow chasing us?’

  ‘A wandering beggar seeking alms,’ said Danforth. ‘He fell ill and died.’

  ‘That was sudden.’ There was no smile on Rowan’s face, only a look of weariness. ‘Well I must return to my da’.’

  ‘Quite. I only come to ask if Mr Martin would like anything from the kitchen?’

  ‘Aye,’ said Martin, propping himself up. ‘Anything. Everything.’

  ‘Recall what the apothecary said about his diet,’ said Rowan.

  ‘I shall.’ He turned to leave.

  ‘Perhaps we can speak later?’ she said. Martin coughed. ‘At your convenience, I mean?’

  ‘Aye. Perhaps.’

  He closed the door on them, disappointed and annoyed. Trust Martin to be laughing at some stupid thing or other with a woman. As he moved down the hall, Forrest pushed past him without a word, his head down. ‘Mr Forrest, I,’ he began, but the man ignored him, striding out of the servant’s hall. Danforth watched until he was gone.