The Royal Burgh

by Veerapen, Steven

‘What do you suggest I do?’

  ‘Take yourself from the burgh for a space.’

  ‘And let these bastard creatures chase me from my home? Leave Mistress Pollock without a gentleman to defend her? They might find it in themselves to attack her, to abuse her.’

  ‘Would you dare?’

  Danforth paused for a moment, his mouth agape, and then laughed. Martin joined him.

  ‘But to be serious, Simon. The sun has broken through over the Canongate, and men’s blood is getting heated. The whole place is full of Douglas retainers. As we’re known to be servants of the Cardinal, they’ll be happy to hazard pleasing their masters by doing both of us a bad turn. And you’re an Englishman, and those ignorant of your good service to his Grace might think you an enemy of the Church and an agent of Henry, and likewise see hurting you a godly act.’

  ‘And for this danger we should run like rats, leaving his Grace to suffer without loyal men all the indignities of some hard gaol, as though he were … I cannot think – a murderer?’

  ‘Oh!’ Martin’s face brightened. ‘The news I heard which brought me down the Canongate! I had forgotten, seeing your yard. It’s said – in good faith – that his Grace has been taken to the Douglas castle at Dalkeith. He’s been imprisoned there in all estate this last week. So much for Arran and his friends plucking him from his pomp and sending him in chains to King Henry. They’re in a proper fear, or so it’s said. Their lash against Cardinal Beaton has flown back on them. With the primate of Scotland in thrall, the clergy are refusing to submit to them. No burials, no masses, the whole show is off until his Grace goes free. George Douglas apparently said that the smallest boys in Scotland would throw stones against the old enemy ruling Scotland. True Scots are letting it be known that they won’t stand for England’s king telling Scotland’s leader what to do. Even Arran’s been emboldened to turn his back on Henry’s demands.’

  ‘Well,’ said Danforth, hope and fear battling for his will, ‘I have seen enough of small boys throwing things. Yet at least the march of Arran and the Douglas brothers has been halted.’

  ‘Aye,’ said Martin, sensing that he was making leeway. ‘They can’t hold his Grace long. They must be in fear of releasing him, in fear of sending him south, and in fear of keeping him a prisoner. Queen Marie’s meant to be doing all she can to aid his release, though she’s a lady of too great cunning to show her hand.’

  ‘Good Queen Marie,’ said Danforth. ‘Aye, I saw the procession when her train left Holyrood. A great Frenchwoman.’ Martin let the words drift in the air. Danforth had an inherently English dislike of the French. But it was tempered by a belief that an alliance with Catholic France was always preferable to an alliance with an English king who had rejected papal authority. Even when old Henry advocated a fair-weather Catholicism, it was well-known that his strange religion would see anyone that questioned whatever policies he felt drawn to on any given day burned. ‘And so the Cardinal’s freedom rests upon the efforts of the queen dowager…’

  ‘So it would seem.’ Martin’s bottom lip jutted. ‘Though it doesn’t exactly please me.’

  ‘I thought you inclined towards her Grace,’ said Danforth. ‘You are French Martin, after all.’

  ‘I do,’ protested Martin. ‘That’s the problem. I’m the Cardinal’s French secretary. If he wishes traffic with Queen Marie, it’s I who might best be of service, and yet still he ignores me. Not to suggest your labour has no worth, sir, but this ought to be my work. The Cardinal is … he’s cutting off his nose to spite his face!’

  ‘A saintly thing to do. It worked for Saint Ebba.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘You do not know your history,’ said Danforth, a smile spreading. ‘Saint Ebba was a Scottish Abbess who took a razor and cut off her nose to avoid being ravished by the Danish invaders. She so disfigured herself that they would not touch her.’

  ‘And she lived?’

  ‘No. But she died with her virtue intact.’

  ‘Well, what a bootless tale.’

  ‘Perhaps. I always found enjoyment in the strange roots of proverbs in the religious and classical authorities.’

  ‘You have some odd pastimes, Simon.’

  ‘No odder than jesting and making sport of others,’ sniffed Danforth. ‘Anyway, Arnaud, if life as Cardinal’s men is less dangerous outside the capital’s burghs, where do you suggest we go?’

  ‘To Stirling. My mother’s been sending me a fair ton of letters begging me to visit, and to bring along “your friend, Mr Danforth”. She’s always itching to meet friends of mine.’

  ‘Stirling …’ said Danforth at length. He was touched that someone wanted to meet him. He was touched at the thought of being invited to feel part of an intimate family – something he hadn’t experienced himself in all his years in his adoptive kingdom. ‘Do you know, I should like to see Stirling again. It’s a peaceful place under its great castle. Yes, let us go to Stirling, to board with your mother. Yet … do you not think that the Cardinal might call on us soon?’ He grimaced at the pleading tone that crept into his voice.

  ‘News can be carried readily to Stirling from Dalkeith if his Grace wants us. Mistress Pollock and my man can be told what to do. Besides,’ he added, ‘the Cardinal, for all his distress, has shown us little concern. If he needs us, then let him wait a few days longer for the privilege. And … well, my mother’s letters keep speaking of the burgh turning bad, you know, since the king went. Robberies, a couple of murders. You’d like it.’

  Danforth said nothing. Instead he led the way back downstairs. Outside, Mistress Pollock was marching a young Robertson into the yard. He stood behind her, plainly terrified, gently massaging the wrist that first his mother and then his new captor had put in their vices.

  ‘You are right,’ said Danforth, under his breath to Martin. ‘I would not cross the woman.’

  4

  The highway was well maintained until a mile or so beyond Edinburgh. Here it had been trampled by the comings and goings of generations of merchants, ambassadors, vagabonds, pedlars, royal retinues and the courtly multitude, Queen Marie’s chariots. As it wound between the patchwork of fields, it was choked in some places by weeds and in others by swamps. Standing at the side of the road like witches with their ratty hair tangled together were copses of trees.

  ‘No regrets at leaving poor Mistress Pollock, sir?’

  ‘None. I would that she keeps that little knave on. It would become them both – her to have a help in the good governance of my household, and he to have some gentle occupation.’

  ‘The tending of fireplaces and mucking out a stable that lacks a tenant? One is gentle, the other a poor trade.’

  ‘For a poor sort of lad. Yet he might make good.’

  ‘This is true. You know, as I was departing your home last night I had a word with him.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘I asked him what he meant when he said “they had me do it”. He didn’t mean his fellows. It was those men of Douglas. They have it in for you.’

  ‘Clever of you, Arnaud. Yet I marked the same myself and concluded that the brutes had promised the boy money.’

  ‘Oh,’ said Martin.

  ‘And so it seems that those jeering fellows were the ones responsible for the affair of my garden, paying an imp to feign allegiance to the Cardinal.’ It made sense. The streets of the Canongate and Edinburgh itself had begun to echo with the sound of Douglas henchmen crying, ‘A Douglas! A Douglas!’

  ‘Maybe.’

  ‘It is why I had the whelp brought forth for honest labour. It might keep him from acting the lout at the instigation of roistering rabble. If he seeks money, he shall come by it honestly. Every lad deserves a chance.’

  ‘Have I not said this myself, in the past?’

  ‘Indeed. It is where I learned of it.’ When they had been in the west the previous November, before the disaster of Solway Moss had shaken the realm to its foundations, Martin had helped a browbeaten stable boy into a potenti
ally lucrative position. The kindness had softened Danforth, making him look more fondly on Martin and on people. ‘Speaking of lads, you said that your mother dwells alone, did you not?’ He didn’t fancy the thought of being thrust into a nest of Martins.

  ‘Aye, with Wilson and the other servants.’ There was a sharp edge to Martin’s tone. Danforth knew that he had living siblings.

  ‘Your brothers, they do not live close by?’

  ‘My siblings are away out into the world, like me. My sister married and went up north, as has one of my brothers. Aberdeen. My other brother roams.’ Danforth nodded absently. He had only distant relatives, unknown, all living in England. They had lacked the conviction to resist King Henry’s heretical reforms, his insistence on his own religious supremacy and grandeur. They might be dead now.

  They rode on. Frequently the highway passed through forests, which even without their protective covering of foliage were frightening. As a child, Danforth’s father William, a gentleman usher to Cardinal Wolsey, raised him on stories of ‘moon-men’: wild and barbarous folk who lived in packs in the woods, not absolutely mad but neither perfectly in their wits. Such creatures haunted lonely glades in strange tribes, their complexions yellow, ready to fall upon travellers unlucky enough to encounter them.

  The Martin house stood outside the burgh proper, exactly as Martin described it on the journey. To reach it, one had to follow the road from Linlithgow, cross the town burn, and then veer right in the direction of the burgh mill. There stood the old tower, a narrow but tall building that had once been a hunting lodge. When Martin’s father had moved the family from Edinburgh, he had purchased the place with the wealth he had built up as a wine merchant. Some woods dotted the area, but the house rose above them like a sentinel, the circular bartizan which dominated one corner giving it a combative if lopsided look. Its windows were haphazard, little dots scattered at random.

  ‘Ho, Graeme,’ called Martin as they approached the house. A boy in a neat, clean apron appeared from around the side, his scrubbed face shining.

  ‘Mr-Martin,’ he squeaked, blurring the words.

  ‘Is the mistress at home?’

  ‘Aye, sir. She’s entertainin’.’

  ‘Is that so? I hope it’s not some gentleman come to claim her hand. Mr Danforth here shall be jealous.’ Danforth bristled, his eyes popping.

  ‘No, sir. Mistress Furay’s called. I’ve got her horse stabled, a fine white mare. You wantin’ me to take yours?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Martin, ‘I suppose so. And keep these old gents away from her. This fine white mare might turn their heads.’

  ‘Aye, sir,’ said Graeme, uncomprehending.

  They dismounted and let the boy lead their horses off, giving him a small coin apiece.

  ‘He’s a good lad,’ said Martin. And then, out of nowhere, ‘I always wanted a wee brother.’

  ‘Yes. I will thank you not to make merry of me like that in front of a servant, all the same. I have no acquaintance of nor knowledge of your mother. She is near old enough to be my own.’

  ‘Give or take some years.’

  ‘That will do.’ Danforth had grown used Martin’s joking, but he preferred it when it was directed at someone other than himself.

  A flight of stone steps lay at the front of the house, leading up to the main entrance. The ground in front of the steps had turned marshy from the recent snow, which appeared to have been harsher in Stirling than Edinburgh. Still, patches of white lay across the fields and in thin stripes on branches. The sun was not shining on Stirling – it had moved again behind a bank of low clouds. Martin skipped over the boggy ground whilst Danforth stepped carefully around out.

  At the top of steps Martin hammered on the door, punctuating each flurry of blows with a loud halloo. Eventually the stout oak creaked open, a thin, nonplussed face peering out. ‘What are you all about, Gillespie? Made to stand in the cold!’

  ‘Young Mr Martin,’ rasped the steward. ‘I had no knowledge of your coming.’

  ‘I wanted to surprise my mother. She’s entertaining, I understand. Well, she’ll entertain her favourite boy and his friend.’

  Nodding, Gillespie threw the door wide. Martin strode past him without acknowledgement, whilst Danforth gave him a nod in return. The first floor of the house, one above the ground, was dominated by a wood-panelled great hall with an adjoining private solar. It was from the latter that laughing voices emanated, and Martin led the way towards them.

  Sitting on a padded settle was a stately, heavyset woman in her early fifties. Though her hair was greying in its netted caul, she had retained delicate enough features to suggest she had been attractive. At the sight of Martin, she rose, letting the needlework on her lap slide to the floor. She crossed and met him halfway across the room. He threw off his gloves, let them fall, and grasped her proffered hands, touching them to his cheek, all traces of jocularity dissipated.

  ‘My boy,’ she said. ‘My boy who never bothers his arse his write his mother.’ A touch of coolness crept in. ‘I wish you’d warn me when you’re coming, or else how am I meant to instruct the servants? You need a shave, son.’

  ‘Gillespie’ll look after me.’ He passed the knuckles of one hand over his cheek. ‘Maman, this here is Mr Danforth, my friend.’

  ‘Oh, finally, the famous Mr Danforth!’ she said, catching sight of him over Martin’s shoulder. ‘I see at least that my loving brat’s read the letters I’ve sent. I’ve been longing to meet you since he mentioned that he’d made a good friend in his work. Well, it’s a comfort to know that he reads them and doesn’t fling them away. I’m Alison Geddes, by the way, and you’re welcome to my home. Please excuse the mess.’ She gestured around at nothing in particular.

  ‘I had to bring him, maman. He can’t manage long without my wit.’

  ‘Then you might tell him how, Arnaud. You’ve managed your whole life without it,’ said Alison.

  ‘Mistress Geddes,’ smiled Danforth, removing his cap and bowing. ‘You do me great honour. It is a true pleasure to be amongst you.’

  ‘Aren’t you a good boy,’ she said.

  ‘He thinks it a pleasure because he knows he’ll have a good bed here,’ said Martin, drawing a sharp look from his mother. He closed his mouth.

  ‘But how are things with your master? News reached us even here that he’s been taken, the faith threatened. I’ve been worried. Do you know there’s no mass, no nothing.’

  ‘We are … we are not presently required in his Grace’s service,’ said Danforth. ‘Yet we know he is safe and well-housed at Dalkeith.’ Alison tutted.

  ‘I think it’s a very selfish thing for the king to have died and left only a wee lassie, the dowager and the Cardinal to protect us. And Henry at it again! Say what you want about Cardinal Beaton, but he stands up to that madman. Here, it’s being said that Henry wants the wee queen for his son, and your master’s been put away so he can’t save her. Ah well, God deliver him.’ Danforth’s cheek jerks in an involuntary half-smile. It felt good to hear talk of politics, even from a woman.

  The trio’s attention was drawn to another chair in the room by a cough, followed by a cool female voice. ‘What a fine picture,’ it said. Danforth looked at who must be Mistress Furay, an elegant woman wearing a fashionable gown, with a low-cut bosom studded with pearls. On her head was perched a square French hood, also jewelled. Her rich, auburn hair was not drawn up underneath it in a coif or chignon, but loose. The whole outfit might have come from one of the queen dowager’s ladies, were it not for the muted claret colour: Queen Marie, it was well known, preferred her women in every conceivable shade of purple.

  ‘Sorry, Madeleine,’ said Alison. ‘Arnaud, you recall Mistress Furay?’

  ‘I do indeed. It’s a pleasure to see you again, mistress. You look … well.’ He was rewarded with a graceful incline of the head. Danforth noticed that Martin seemed a little awed.

  ‘Mr Danforth,’ continued Alison, ‘Mistress Furay’s a friend of mine. She li
ves in the burgh and gives me the comfort my children rarely bother giving.’ Pink rose in Martin’s cheeks at the rebuke. ‘Mistress Furay’s husband to Furay, a merchant in the town.’

  ‘A great merchant,’ Madeleine corrected her. ‘We stay in one of the finest homes off the Hiegait.’

  ‘It is an honour, Mistress…’ Danforth’s forehead wrinkled. ‘Furay … you take your husband’s name?’ That was an English custom. In Scotland, married women tended to retain their maiden names, though they were entitled to use their husband’s. They demonstrated their married status by appending their signatures, ‘wife to’ their husband’s surname. It had taken Danforth so long to get used to it, it was irritating to have it rejected.

  ‘Yes, sir. It is the new fashion, I fancy, to change one’s name – albeit it be reckoned that my own kin descended from the royal Stewarts.’ She tilted her head. She was, Danforth noticed, younger than Alison Geddes by some years. She looked to be in her mid-thirties. Though not possessed of the high forehead and blonde hair of a great beauty, she was exceptionally pretty, button-nosed and sporting flashing green eyes. They sparkled and flared in the light from the low fire. All that marred her were dark circles under those eyes, giving her the kind of pale, haunted look that some men, he supposed, would find provocative. Despite himself he felt attraction stirring. ‘Please, call me Madeleine.’

  ‘Mistress Furay,’ cried Alison, shocked. ‘What are you like?’

  ‘I…’ Confusion came into Madeleine’s face, and the sultry look was suddenly replaced by that of a lost child. ‘My apologies, Mistress Geddes, gentlemen. Mistress Furay is quite right, until we are friends.’

  A silence fell upon the room, no one knowing quite what to say. Madeleine recovered first, self-assuredness regaining control. Her eyes fell upon the window in the room, covered up with oiled linen painted over with colourful shapes. ‘That is a fine thing, that window,’ she said. ‘Of course, Mr Furay has had ours replaced with horn. Much better in the winter.’

  ‘Aye,’ said Alison, sighing. ‘I reckon it adds some colour, almost like bright glass.’