Fire & Faith

by Steven Veerapen

  ‘Then I wish you luck. Both of you. I think you’ll need it.’

  Martin shook his head dismissively. ‘You know …’ he chanced. He had been going to suggest she now speak to Danforth, let him know that she was now free to leave Linlithgow, to marry. With a dowry. Instead, he said, ‘if ever you need to talk again, Simon is full of wisdom. About all kinds of things.’

  Finally, a real smile broke out on her face.

  23

  Linlithgow’s combination draper and tailor shop was run by a widowed woman. Her white hair was swept up into an outrageous coif with a neat cap slicing through it like a ship parting waves. He had asked Diane to buy them some refreshments, asking casually where she had done business the day before the masque. When her back was turned, he had taken himself into the little place, not far along the street from the apothecary.

  Inside, the little woman had introduced herself as Mistress Lithgow. He had bitten his tongue at the obviously false name – a jejune attempt at giving her establishment an air of civic style and class. Still, the woman herself was impressive in her brusque manner. ‘What do you want?’

  ‘Only some information, mistress.’

  ‘We don’t sell that,’ she said, turning to snap at a woman working under her. In one corded hand she held a little wooden mannequin, of the type affectionately known as a ‘baby’, a miniature purple dress fitted neatly onto it.

  ‘It concerns the royal household,’ said Danforth. ‘I’m a gentleman and secretary to the lord cardinal. I am at present engaged on the business of Queen Marie.’

  At this, Lithgow’s expression softened minutely. ‘A good customer. Pays on time. Used to come in here herself, Queen Marie, can you believe that? Right into this shop, when she was giving out alms in the burgh.’

  ‘I can believe it.’

  ‘Yet her Highness can’t be after more material. I’ve given her near all I’ve got. It’s not another masque already, is it?’ She set down the baby and leant forward on the counter on her elbows.

  ‘No, it concerns the order already filled.’

  ‘Nothing wrong with it,’ she said without hesitation. ‘I measured that cloth myself. Made sure it was of the highest quality.’

  Danforth shook his head. ‘Nothing like that. I don’t doubt your work for a moment. No, it was only that … her Highness is concerned that there is some irregularity in the order. A mistake made by some servant or other. You understand, she must keep an orderly house.’

  ‘Can’t have servants pinching things, eh? What, have they been adding their own stuff to her orders? Seen that sort of thing before, and not just from the royal household.’

  ‘Something like that. Perhaps. If you have the order, the list?’

  Without a word, Lithgow nodded and disappeared into the back of the shop, returning quickly with a small silver casket. She drew a key from a chain around her neck and opened it. A young woman, presumably one of her servants, had followed her, and tried to peek. ‘Do you want a sherrackin’, lass? Get away with you. Do some work.’ Pouting, the girl disappeared, Lithgow looking up at him apologetically.

  With deft, practiced movements, she sorted through the papers in the casket, her eyes flitting down one of them before she handed it over. ‘This is the order,’ she said. ‘Looked fair to me. Unusual, maybe, but I’d heard she had a masque getting put on from her lassie. Beauterne, her name was.’

  Danforth scanned the document, reading the contents allowed. He had no idea what he was reading. The handwriting alone was a difficult to penetrate. ‘Why do you say unusual, mistress?’ he asked at last.

  ‘Just like a man,’ she said. ‘Well, it’s not so strange in itself. Her Highness, she often orders material from here. Purple, violet, pink, white. Black, too, the expensive stuff, French black. But in this order and,’ she flipped again through her casket, producing another note, ‘this one, from the week before last, there were requests for blue. No particular shade, just blue. I’ve never known her to want so many ells of blue. Rarely even carry it. Had to order it in. I assumed she was putting on some sea play – you know, making up false waves.’ She raised an arm and motioned waves with her hand. ‘But, well – look – the blue was to be run up as cloaks. With hoods, specified, see. Were they capering about as mermaids up there, or dolphins?’

  ‘No, mistress,’ said Danforth quietly. She shrugged. ‘The blue, I see, is written at the bottom of the notes. Added in. I think the handwriting is a wee thing different.’ She took back the notes and peered closely, comparing them.

  ‘Aye. Like I said, everyone in the household can add what they need to these notes before they come down to me. It’s a foolish thing – it breeds corruption in servants.’

  ‘Who brings the notes to you? You said Mistress Beauterne?’

  ‘I said she collected the material. Carried it up to the palace the other day. No, usually it’s someone else.’

  ‘Who?’ asked Danforth, leaning in eagerly. ‘I must know, mistress. It is important.’

  ‘The boy,’ she said. ‘The little page boy, Mathieu.’

  ***

  He found Diane in the market cross, a crust of bread in either hand. She rushed towards him, petulance making a comical mask of her pretty features. ‘Where did you go?’ she asked him. ‘You just left me.’

  ‘I apologise, mistress,’ he said. ‘I had to … nature called.’ He essayed a blush. In truth, he felt he was getting better at dissembling.

  ‘I see,’ she said, a warm smile spreading again. ‘Sorry. I did not mean to pry. Here, I got you this. You can have the bigger one.’

  They ate in silence, Danforth watching as Cam Hardie and Geordie Simms exited the inn and retrieved their horses. Thankfully they did not notice him, and cantered out of the town, shouting, ‘A Douglas! A Douglas!’ as townspeople cleared a path, throwing up aggrieved and wearied looks.

  ‘That’s the fellow who sought to trifle with me at the masque,’ said Diane. ‘The fair young man, who was not so fair in manner.’

  ‘Is that so, mistress?’ asked Danforth, after swallowing some of the dry bread. ‘Perhaps you have learned not to be taken in by fair looks and fair words. They can mask dark hearts. You must learn to be less trusting. No all handsome gallants are all innocence.’

  ‘I prefer to trust and be sometimes wrong than distrust and be hardened.’

  ‘Then I wish you luck in this dark world.’ She shifted. So, thought Danforth. Mr Hardie was out of the great hall when the boy was killed. It might be nothing – it probably was nothing. Still, it was a shame the fool was riding away when he might question him about his whereabouts – and about Diane’s tale, of course. Nothing should be taken as read.

  ‘Simon, Diane,’ said Martin, joining them. ‘I didn’t think to see you here.’

  ‘Good morrow, Mr Martin,’ said Danforth, frowning and laying emphasis on the surname. They were in public, after all. ‘Mistress Beauterne and I felt the sudden need to be out of the palace. You can imagine, after this morning. And yesterday.’

  ‘Aye,’ said Martin, fists balling. ‘I understand.’ Danforth was pleased to see that Martin had the wit not to question him any further, that the younger man did not automatically ask why he was not in the palace investigating, in front of the girl. He was learning. A chill ran through him. There had been opportunities enough to learn lately. Perhaps Scotland really was cursed. Not only the parade of deaths at the hands of the Stewart kings conjured up by their killer, but all the murders he had seen in the country lately. The realm had run mad.

  ‘But now I fear we must return.’

  ‘Wait,’ said Martin. ‘Rowan – Mistress Allen – her father has passed away.’

  ‘What? Oh no,’ Diane half-shrieked, raising her hands to her mouth. ‘What is happening, gentlemen? He wasn’t murdered?’

  ‘Peace, no. He was ill, had been ill. He went peacefully in his sleep. Mr Danforth, I think she’d like to see you. If you would go to her, perhaps, Mistress Beauterne and I can go up to
the palace.’

  ‘There is no time for that,’ said Danforth. The image of Rowan danced into his mind, his hands on her waist, her laughing smile as she dipped. He did not want to see her crying. ‘Perhaps some other time.’ He could handle no more death, not at that moment. It almost felt as though he himself were cursed, as though knowledge of him carried death in it.

  He began stomping away from the cross, leaving a crestfallen Martin and a disappointed-looking Diane in his wake.

  ***

  The palace courtyard, when they reached it, was in uproar. What now? wondered Danforth. Perhaps the Hamilton flunkies were now leaving. But when he saw the cause of the uproar, he cursed. Swarming about were servants, their expressions mutinous. Some were armed with the tools of their trade: brooms, brushes – one woman was even waving a wet cloth in the air. Anthony Guthrie hobbled before them, waving him own stave of office like a baton, a general leading his troops. Had the man gone mad, wondered Danforth, before pushing his way through the crowd.

  ‘Mr Guthrie, what is going on here?’ he shouted.

  Guthrie ignored him. The man’s eyes had gone wild, and though he was shouting himself, it was not directed at Danforth. ‘I have seen it! I have seen the devil! He walks among us, invited here by foul practices of sorcery! Friends, friends, we must leave this place! Will we tarry here to be slain as our young Mathieu was slain? No, I say!’ Finally he caught Danforth’s eye. ‘There! Those men – look what they have brought upon us. You must bring our masses back! Your master must be free!’ He looked back at his wild mob. ‘And those Hamilton men – it is they who brought the wrath of Rome, who made the Holy Father turn his back on us, deprive us. Will we suffer it? No, I say! The cardinal must go free, and the mass restored! Freedom! Freedom from evil!’

  The group of rampaging servants waved their tools in the air and cried out in approbation. At that moment, Forrest appeared, leading his own battalion: the household musicians, Rab Gibb, the cook, Marshall, and a handful of guards, their hands resting uneasily on their weapons. They ranged themselves opposite the marauding servants. ‘Stop this nonsense at once,’ cried Forrest. ‘In the name of her Grace Queen Mary, go back to your business. Stop this madness!’

  Danforth led Diane and Martin through the disgruntled crowd. ‘Help us, Mr Danforth,’ shrieked Guthrie. ‘You know that the dark arts are at work here. You know it!’ Danforth ignored him, leading his troupe towards Forrest, who looked him up and down.

  ‘Forrest, what is all this wild scrimmage?’

  ‘Are you men for us or against us?’ the depute asked.

  ‘I am for order. Not chaos,’ answered Danforth.

  ‘Right. This lot might turn ugly. Guthrie’s been winding them up, they’re all half-mad with fear.’

  ‘Go easy,’ said Martin. ‘You can’t blame them.’

  ‘I can keep this house in order. You two men are wanted upstairs anyway. The dowager demanded your presence earlier. I couldn’t find you.’ Danforth sensed a note of criticism, but Forrest had already turned back to Guthrie and his followers. ‘Listen, folk,’ he shouted. ‘There will be no need for violence if you return to your work. Her Highness understands your concerns and is acting on them even as I speak.’

  Wondering what he meant, Danforth led Martin and Diane away from the rebellion and up through the tower to the queen’s rooms.

  They left Diane in the outer chamber, where she joined some gossiping, wide-eyed women, and passed through the inner one. Knots of Hamiltons stood around, their heads down, speaking in hushed tones. Danforth ignored them and headed directly into Queen Marie’s bedchamber, knocking before slipping through.

  ‘Good morrow, gentlemen,’ she said. She was standing over Madame LaBoeuf, directing the woman as she carefully laid various bits of clothing in trunks.

  ‘Good morrow, your Highness,’ they said in unison. ‘You called for us?’ added Danforth.

  ‘Yes,’ she said, collapsing wearily into a chair. It was not, he noticed, her usual chair of estate, but a little sitting chair by the great bed. ‘C’est fini. I release you from your duty.’

  The men exchanged looks. ‘But … your Highness said that we had until tonight.’

  ‘Ah. So then you have found nothing yet.’

  ‘I … I found another blue cloak. In young Mathieu’s chamber.’ He hurried on, ignoring Martin’s gaping mouth. ‘It is further evidence. It came from the tailor, a Madame Lithgow. Someone in your household added it to the list.’

  Marie raised an eyebrow. ‘And?’

  ‘Well, if we discover who has been adding to the orders sent to the tailor, we have the man behind all of this.’

  ‘Yet you do not know who it was who did this.’

  ‘I thought,’ said Danforth, raising a hand to loosen his collar, ‘that you might know. Who might have access to these order lists, who might add to them.’

  ‘Anyone might add to them,’ said Madame LeBoeuf, shutting a trunk with a reverberating bang. ‘Anyone. You would have to ask Mathieu.’

  Danforth bowed his head. ‘My lady is quite right,’ said Marie. ‘Such lists are open to anyone before my boy took them to the tradespeople. I cannot concern myself with all accounts. I trust my people.’

  ‘Might anyone else gain access? Outside the household?’ asked Danforth.

  Marie shrugged. ‘Forget it, Mr Danforth. You had your time to discover the truth of this affair. There is no more. You have seen the mad affray out there?’

  ‘We have,’ said Martin. ‘Your usher is leading it.’

  ‘He will be dealt with,’ she said. ‘When we have reached some place of safety. I told you, it is over. You are released. I am sure you did your best.’ It was unclear from her tone if she was angry, disappointed, or weary. To Danforth, the bluntness somehow made it worse.

  ‘What,’ he asked, his mouth drying, ‘can you mean, your Highness?’

  ‘I mean that I am leaving this place, with or without the blessing of that man Arran. He cannot keep me here, nor my daughter.’

  ‘But where will you go, where will you take her?’ asked Martin.

  ‘I …’ Marie raised a hand to her forehead. ‘I have lost. I will throw myself on the mercy of Henry of England. He shall have my daughter. Arran cannot speak against that. At least she shall be safe in England. I hear that the man, Sadler, has already crossed Berwick – I shall go to meet him if I must, deliver the child into his hands. Me, I shall seek protection in France. Or stay here. I do not greatly care what becomes of me, provided my child is safe.’

  ‘Not England,’ croaked Danforth. ‘Please, your Highness. Things cannot have got so far.’

  She gave him a half-smile. ‘No love for your former realm? I understand. No, Mr Danforth, things have gone so far. Nowhere in Scotland is safe, every place holds terror. Every place holds violent death. A thirst for vengeance against my daughter’s progenitors. Only in England are the Stewarts not despised by some faction or other.’

  ‘Have you announced this?’ asked Danforth, his mind turning quickly.

  ‘Not yet.’

  ‘Madam, might I speak with you alone?’

  ‘It will do no good. My mind is clear and I wish matters to move apace. We leave for Holyroodhouse tomorrow. And I will have letters sent under my own hand to King Henry.’

  ‘Please, your Highness.’

  She sighed, saying nothing. In the fire, a log crackled and fell. Eventually she looked up. ‘Very well, Mr Danforth. If you are quick. Madame, Mr Martin, pray wait outside for a moment.’

  ‘Wait,’ protested Martin, casting an appealing look at Danforth. ‘He meant us both.’

  ‘No, Martin. Do as her Highness commands.’

  ‘Like hell, I–’ Martin, seemingly remembering where he was, slammed his mouth shut. ‘Aye, your Highness,’ he said. Danforth absorbed his look of anger as he and the waiting woman filed out. He waited until the door was closed before he spoke.

  ‘Please, your Highness, I think I might be on the brink of discov
ering our murderer. Of discovering what has been behind the foul events in the palace since before our coming here.’

  ‘It is too late,’ she said, irritation threatening. ‘I have told you this.’

  ‘No,’ he said, matching her firmness. ‘I need only one chance. It … it shall involve some pretence on both our parts. All I ask is … might you delay announcing your intention to give your child to the English king until tonight? Then you might assemble the whole household. And when you do so, might I see you privately in this room before you go out there and speak?’

  She looked at him, a hint of amusement playing on her lips. ‘What is this, sir? Some game? Some farce?’

  ‘I confess it is something like that. And if I might press further, would you happen to have some token? A ring, or some such, that might be taken for a strong royal pledge? If it looks like it is of English design, so much the better.’

  At this, she laughed, and stood, crossing the room to a cabinet. She pulled open a door in it, and rifled, producing a ruby and gold ring. ‘This is not only of English design, Mr Danforth. It comes from England’s king. It was sent me years ago by Mr Cromwell, when he sought me for King Henry’s bed. A mark of his Majesty’s favour and esteem, the letter said. I did not take the husband, but I did keep the ring.’ She held it out, and Danforth rose from his knee, crossing to take it. It was heavy, cold. He slipped it into a pocket. ‘You will return it?’

  ‘Of course, your Highness,’ he said, and she laughed at the look on his face.

  ‘I trust you. Yes, Mr Danforth. I wish to see what scheme you have concocted. I will see you here tonight. Until then I will say nothing. But I warn you, this is your last throw of the dice. My mind is quite made up, as sorry as I am to be brought to this pass.’

  ‘Becalm yourself, your Highness,’ said Danforth. ‘I trust that this evening all will be revealed.’

  24