‘I did not know we have dried fruit, mistress. You never told me of that,’ said Danforth. He had been wanting fruit for days now, tired of the usual salty winter fare.
‘Sorry, sir. You didn’t ask it of me.’
Martin grinned over his shoulder as Danforth led him out of the kitchen. ‘That woman makes very free with my house, offering guests my hospitality. I think she prefers you to me. Would you like to take her on?’
‘I think not. Sometimes she looks like she might eat me, bless her.’
They retired to Danforth’s withdrawing chamber, exchanging news. Martin had much more than Danforth, who was almost ashamed at the monastic life he had led since they had fallen from the Cardinal’s favour. Martin’s mother was doing well in Stirling; still she wrote to him far more often than he wrote to her. Given his unexpected leisure time, he had been paying court to a young lady, a merchant’s daughter, in Edinburgh – but she had pretty prominent teeth, and had little to say for herself. Otherwise, Martin’s experience had been similar to Danforth’s. Cardinal Beaton had not summoned him, but neither was he cut off from service, receiving regular payments from an embittered Shug Fraser, who was torn between gloating at his newfound esteem in the Cardinal’s service, and resentful that they received payment for nothing whilst he must add to his toil by delivering their cash.
Once they had eaten and drunk their fill, they came to the nub of the predicament. Martin had heard no more than Danforth, save that the Cardinal had not been immediately carted to England, but arrested and was being taken somewhere unknown, likely not far from Edinburgh. They agreed that they must wait to see how events played out, but that if they discovered that Beaton was indeed to be delivered into England, they would commit themselves to his rescue, whether requested or otherwise.
By the time they had finished talking, the short day was at an end. Dusk had fallen, a twinkling of stars dotting the navy sky. The moon was out, and close to being full. Danforth saw Martin out. In the kitchen, Mistress Pollock pressed some dried fruit on him before he could step after Danforth into the little garden.
‘Do you think we shall have more snow?’ asked Danforth, casting an appraising eye upwards.
‘Too cold for snow, as my mother says. Not that I ever understood that, for they say it snows even in the lands of the great Ivan, where it must be colder than Scotland.’
‘Boreas has a fearsome temper.’
‘‘sake. King, god or philosopher?’ sighed Martin.
‘The Greeks’ north wind. Or rather their god of it.’
‘Very good. For a good Catholic gentleman, you have a worrisome knowledge of the old pagany gods. Is there anything those fellows didn’t name a god for? But still … look here, it’s a good thing to speak with you again, Simon. I’ve missed your shite.’
‘Shite?’ said Danforth, bristling as he helped Martin to mount Coureur.
‘Peace. Thanks for accepting my apology. Let’s not let politics divide friendships again. Otherwise no man may count a friend a true one.’
‘Sage wisdom, young Martin. You keep it well hidden.’
‘I’ll come again when there’s news. Or you can come to me. I can’t boast a Mistress Pollock, as you know, but my steward knows his wine.’
‘Very well, Arnaud. Now we wait, but I count it an easier thing to wait in troubled times with a friend than alone.’ He was keen to outdo Martin’s homespun wisdom, pill though he knew it must make him. Martin nodded, steering Coureur under the stone arch that led out into the street and on to the broad road that bisected the Canongate. Danforth watched him go, then looked up at the darkening sky once more. Content, he retreated into the warmth and light of his house.
3
The following days stretched closer to a week, as the denizens of Edinburgh and the Canongate awaited news out of Holyroodhouse. Queen Marie, as expected, fled, taking little Queen Mary with her: not to Stirling, but to another of her dower properties, the pleasant palace of Linlithgow, where her child had been born. Douglas men began to flood the burghs, full of swagger and bragging, but their boastful, bullying behaviour only raised sentiments against Protector Arran and in favour of the Cardinal. It was rumoured that a parliament was to be called, and accordingly servants of the men of the shires began to arrive – the rabble that presaged the arrival of clergy, commons and nobility. The Canongate, as the fashionable lodging for visitors, and close to power, began to fill up, every spare room and boarding house spoken for. In the market crosses, King Henry and all Englishmen were descanted upon as enemies of Scotland’s Church and sovereignty. It was good news of a kind. Arran dared not send the Cardinal south with feelings running so high.
Still, it meant many new faces, any of whom might bring news, true or false. In England, the punishment for reporting false news was severe – the loss of an ear, or a hand, according to ancient statute – but in Scotland, peddling false news seemed almost to be a national pastime despite laws against common flyting. Out of the Cardinal’s sphere, Danforth had to rely on his and Martin’s ability to filter true tales from wild bruits. The key to approaching strangers - as everyone did, for news, or alms, or hostlery - was to appear sane, wealthy and important. It had become part of the daily grind.
Danforth had been hunting the merchants’ shops in the Canongate for news and dried fruit – since discovering that Mistress Pollock had been hoarding some, he had rapidly depleted the store. As he stepped out of one shop – ‘very sorry, sir, nothing for you’ – he was hit in the chest by a grimy ball of old snow. It shattered, splattering his coat and cloak. In it was the filth of the gutters and sewer. He patted his chest down and then shook off his gloves.
‘Death tae the English,’ a shrill voice squealed. ‘Let oor Cardinal loose!’ A small boy, bolder than his fellows, had thrown it. His arm was still poised as the others laughed. Danforth flushed, anger flaring. Before he could scold the child, a woman in a dirty black dress and white bonnet fixed bony, un-gloved fingers around the boy’s wrist. ‘Gies peace, ma,’ cried the urchin. ‘He’s English, I’ve heard ‘im speak. They said he’s Henry’s man, they telt me–’
‘He’s a Cardinal’s man, ye stupid little whelp,’ cried the woman, the bow under her chin shaking, ‘he’s lived in the Canongate forever. What have ye done?’ She turned pleading, frightened eyes on Danforth. ‘He meant nothing by it, sir. Please, I’ll tan his arse myself, and then his father shall have a shot.’ The boy began to wriggle, his raillery dissolving.
‘And a strong beating such a vulgar little knave deserves,’ said Danforth. ‘Get him from my sight. A walk in the snow barefoot is what he wants, until his feet fall off and he learns manners.’
‘Aye, sir,’ she said. Her obsequious expression turned to thunder as she turned again to the boy, wrenching his wrist as she dragged him from his friends. As he wailed, the other boys began hooting laughter. Danforth turned from them, still fuming.
‘Sadly,’ said a voice close by his elbow, making him jump, ‘you’re going to have to expect that kind of thing from the ignorant.’ Martin had materialised, a dried plum between gloved fingers.
‘Martin, you can spring from nowhere like the devil himself. I do not like being surprised. Where did you get that?’
‘From there.’ He gestured at the shop from which Danforth had come. ‘Earlier.’
‘And so you had the last of it?’
‘No. They had a barrel.’
‘Yet they told me they were barren.’
‘These are bad times, Simon, evil days. No one wants to be seen giving anything to English folk.’
‘I have purchased fruit from that merchant and his boy for years, the base slaves. They know me.’
‘It’s nothing against you as a man, sir.’ Martin took a bite. ‘It’s not very good, anyway,’ he added, through squirming cheeks. He swallowed. ‘Henry’s made enemies of Scotland and the Scots. The people he wishes to rule. Daft old bugger.’
‘He is that. If only his crooked heart would burst in
his chest and send him to Hell.’ Still, after all these years, Danforth felt a thrill at speaking ill of King Henry. In England it was forbidden to talk of the king’s death. Men and women had hanged for even saying it was a possibility. The English king’s unnatural and suspicious rule, indeed, had been one of the things that had made his sudden escape into Scotland quite so terrifying. Thus, the freedom to call for his death never lost its lustre. It was like finding oneself suddenly at liberty to hurl stones at a tyrannical old schoolmaster who had been overzealous with the rod. Why any Scot would tolerate the demands and abuses of such a cruel master he could not understand, save that Henry had all the wealth of the church, and would offer bribes as well as threats to get what he wanted. ‘Have you any news?’
‘Aye. But not here.’ Martin cast a glance across the street. Lurking under the wooden awning of a shop opposite them were two men in Douglas colours, laughing and staring at them. When they met Martin’s gaze, one of them bit his thumb. ‘Let’s go to your house. Or else I shall cross this street, bite off that fellow’s finger and feed it to his fat friend.’
They walked up the street, careful of the central sewer channel. The sun had come out, casting a hard, clear light on the burgh. The remaining snow had begun to melt, letting the sewage thaw with it. From every direction came the sound of dripping water. There was something incongruous about the lingering snow now. It clashed with cold, bright sunlight and the crystal sky. A little way along the Canongate, midway between the market cross and Danforth’s house, a crowd had gathered around a man in black with an unkempt beard.
‘The Church must be reformed,’ he was crying. ‘For the better bringing forth of God’s word, we must cast down idols! Hear, friends, the abuses. Hear them!’ A few townspeople were gathered close, nodding; others were hurling abuse; most were looking away. One old woman skirted the scene imperiously, her back poker-straight, her gnarled hands clamped over her ears.
‘Madness,’ said Danforth, horror-struck. ‘Even here.’
‘We’ll see a lot more of that, mon ami. Old crows like that will feel they have liberty to preach. Arran and the two Douglas creatures are said to have pronounced that the English king’s wishes for Scotland’s Church will be met by the next parliament. There’ll be fighting in the streets before long.’
‘An evil triumvirate,’ spat Danforth. ‘The people will not have it.’
As they turned into Danforth’s courtyard, he let out a horrified gasp. The place had been ravaged. Refuse and animal waste had been strewn across the ground, across bare stone and the little patch of frost-flecked grass. It hung dripping on the bush that separated him from his neighbour. The smell was appalling. Even his little tree, a harmless thing without its greenery, had had its branches snapped and broken.
‘Woebegone!’ His next thought was for his horse. He leapt over some of the filth, unbolted the stable door and went in. Mercifully the old thing had been left alone, though it eyed him with fear. Recognising him, it whinnied pitifully. ‘You are well, old fellow,’ he said, patting the strong neck, ‘they have not touched you.’ He turned to Martin, who had bent to examine the sullied ground, ‘who has done this?’
‘The Douglases? Arran’s men? Common folk who only know that an Englishman lives here?’ He rose, reaching under his cloak to wipe off dirtied gloves, his forehead creasing. ‘Simon, I can’t say. Poor Mistress Pollock.’
‘They will have brought harm to her?’ Danforth’s heart fluttered again. Though Mistress Pollock was tiresome, he hadn’t even given her a thought. To think he had secretly condemned the Cardinal for his lack of feeling.
‘In a sense,’ said Martin, frowning. ‘She’ll have to clear this, since you employ no boy for these tasks.’
‘Hmm. Yet we must see that she is safe first.’
Stepping more carefully across the vandalised courtyard this time, they went into the house. The kitchen was neat and clean, but Mistress Pollock was not there. They found her upstairs, on her knees scrubbing the fireplace. Her back cracked as she rose, and her hands went around to knead it.
‘Mr Danforth, you’re back early.’
‘Are you well, Mistress Pollock?’
‘Huh – a wee bit pain in my back sir, but no’ really anything –’
‘No, I mean no harm has come to you? No men have broken in here?’ Her face twisted in confusion.
‘Indeed no’, sir. Mr Martin, I trust you’re well,’ she said, spotting him. ‘What’s this about men coming into the house?’
‘Some fellows have wrought destruction on Mr Danforth’s yard. It’s a mess.’
‘What? Is the old beast harmed?’
‘Woebegone’s safe. You hear anything?’
‘Aye, sir, some noise a short space ago. I paid it no heed. The whole burgh has been full of noise, with all these gents coming and going. There’s no peace from wild laughter and singing.’
‘Quite. Well, Mistress Pollock, I am glad you are well. Though you might see a physician about your back.’
‘If you wish it broken,’ said Martin, drawing Mistress Pollock’s eyebrows upwards.
‘Pay no mind to my young friend.’ Danforth knew Martin had a special hatred for physicians.
‘Very good, sir. Do you wish me to tend to the yard?’
‘No. Mr Martin?’ he asked, turning to face him. ‘Did you mark the shrew who took hold of that malapert boy’s wrist on the market cross?’
‘I did.’
‘Do you know her?’
‘I think she’s wife to a Robertson. I think. They live in the eastern end of the Canongate.’
‘Such was my thinking. There is fitting punishment for her brat. He might tend to the filth in my yard.’
‘You think the boy had a hand in the destruction, sir?’ asked Mistress Pollock.
‘I care not a plum for whether he did or not, mistress. He shall have the job of putting things back in order. You know where these Robertson folk live?’
‘Yes, sir, I think so. I can find out, anyway.’
‘Then go to it, mistress. Explain to the mother that the wretched boy is called hence by Mr Danforth, gentleman secretary of the Lord Cardinal, and that he is here to be corrected for his crimes by engaging in a job of work.’
‘Aye, sir,’ said Mistress Pollock again. She bustled off, another smile playing across her face. This one had little to do with young Martin, but was entirely due to Danforth.
‘Stay, mistress,’ said Martin. She stopped, turning on the spot.
‘Here, I have something for the household.’ He reached under his cloak, waggling around in a pocket. ‘Och, I can’t feel with these damned gloves. Ah!’ He produced a handful of dried plums. Amongst them was some fluff, a button and a chipped coin, the king’s face worn nearly away. ‘For you. At least, the plums are.’
‘Oh, that’s awfy kind of you, sir.’
‘They’ll need a wash, mind. A gentleman’s pockets are full of dirt.’
‘Of course, sir.’ She smiled again, for him. Danforth’s lip curled at being one-upped.
After she had left, Danforth and Martin took their accustomed seats in the private chamber. Here Danforth had allowed his wages from the Cardinal to be spent. He slept in a meaner room, undecorated, and kept the rest of his house cheaply. In the room where he had conducted his work, he’d invested in comfort. The walls were wood-panelled, the tables all meant for the purpose rather than improvised and spread with fringed tablecloths. He had even brought out a painting he had had done after his wife’s death, which during his first years in Scotland he had kept locked in a coffer.
Throughout those years, Alice Danforth had haunted his dreams, bringing him comfort and misery. The dreams had only stopped the previous November, and he felt comfortable and respectful in releasing the portrait from captivity. It was not the best likeness, painted on bare wood by an indifferent artist friend who favoured the old fashion of iconography rather than realism, but it was something. She was depicted sitting, cradling their lost daught
er in her arms, smiling straight out like, with more the aspect of a saint than anyone who had ever breathed, laughed, or smiled.
Danforth caught Martin looking at the portrait, and the younger man quickly turned his gaze away. Martin rarely asked him about his life in England, afraid, perhaps, of dredging up the past and disturbing his mind.
‘She no longer comes to me in my dreams,’ said Danforth, surprised at the words himself.
‘That’s a good thing. Let the lady rest.’
‘And you? I recall you telling me you had once had a lady you hoped to marry: the one who married another. Has she released you from her grip now that this young woman in Edinburgh has captured your affection?’
‘Pfft, I barely know Isobel. But no, Marion doesn’t intrude on my thoughts. Or, at least, she doesn’t as much as she used to. Time and distance, mon ami, take care of such things.’
‘Yes. And some other lady shall, I am sure, be as much to you. Cupid might strike you yet.’
‘Oh,’ said Martin, his chest protruding, ‘I’ve no doubt of it. Though I haven’t yet found one like her. Yet … yet I feel I knew a great many women in knowing Marion, back then.’
‘Is that so?’
‘Mmm. You see, I saw many faces to her. When she was angry, or hurt, or in good humour, or jealous. Yes, in her I saw a hundred women. Perhaps it’s spoiled me for any new woman.’
‘Yes, I see,’ said Danforth, smiling. ‘I see that perhaps Cupid shall not exhaust his arrows on you as quickly as I had thought. Well, what is for you shall not go by you. That is what they say, is it not?’
‘Perhaps she’s become a greater thing in the imagination and memory than ever she was in my life,’ Martin shrugged. ‘You know like how happens sometimes. But enough of this fond talk. Simon, this attack –’
‘It is but a kailyard, a garden. There is no great damage done. That Robertson imp shall put it right.’
‘Today it is but a yard. Tomorrow your shutters might be broken. Or Woebegone might be hurt.’ At that, Danforth bit his lip.
The Royal Burgh Page 3