‘Almost, but not quite, my dear. You will get draughts.’ She fidgeted. ‘Oh, but this beastly cushion. In our house, we have feather cushions stitched by nuns. They are much more the thing of today. I can fetch you some over. They are the things you want, I’m sure.’
‘That would be good of you, hen. Here, it must be getting late. And I’ll need to tell Wilson to let the cook know we’ll be a greater number for supper.’
‘I have–’
‘I’m sure you’ll want to beat the dark home, hen, what with all these black tales.’
‘Yes,’ said Madeleine, taking the hint and rising. ‘I’ve an appointment later with my husband, who shall no doubt bring us further riches from his latest enterprise.’ Despite her haughty tone, a frown danced across her brow, and was gone. She pulled a fur-lined cloak up and about her shoulders.
‘You have been married long, mistress?’ asked Danforth, conscious that his voice betrayed disappointment. The word ‘appointment’ had struck an odd note.
‘Happily, for some time, yes. He has promised me fennel, to season our meat. He is a burgess and a guildsman too, you see,’ she added for Danforth’s benefit. ‘She put her hands to her back and cracked it, as Mistress Pollock had done. ‘I beg your pardon. That cushion.’
‘It was good to see you, Mistress Furay. Please come again, and soon.’
‘And you, mistress. And young Mr Martin. Why, the last time I saw you, you were covered in plooks and a head shorter.’ Martin’s pink cheeks made a return. ‘You’ve grown into a beautiful young fellow. I can see why your mother speaks so highly of you. Though you ought to have your hair cut shorter. It’s no longer the fashion to have it cover your ears. And Mr…?’
‘Danforth.’
‘Yes, Mr Danforth. I trust I shall know you better some day.’ Their eyes lingered on one another’s for a beat.
‘I’d like to see you out, hen,’ said Alison.
‘I … what? That’s for your servants to do, surely.’ Madeleine’s tone, thought Danforth, was odd. What seemed like a catty remark lacked claws. The woman instead seemed to be genuinely confused by the proprieties.
‘Still I want to.’ The women left the solar, Madeleine humming a merry little tune, leaving a bowing Martin and Danforth behind. They waited until they heard the swish of skirts and Madeleine’s hum fade before speaking.
‘She’s a haughty wench if I ever saw one,’ said Martin, collapsing into the seat she had vacated. He plucked up the offending cushion and punched it. ‘There’s nothing wrong with this.’ Danforth was glad Martin had given voice to his own thoughts.
‘She does indeed seem a proud creature,’ he said, wandering over to a trestle table laden with half-empty pewter cups and a silver candelabrum. ‘I must say I find it a great surprise that a fine woman like your mother has a friendship with such a prideful, superior one as she.’ It seemed important to voice dislike, in case Martin could somehow read his thoughts.
‘It’s a mystery to be sure,’ smirked Martin. ‘A family trait, perhaps.’
After Mistress Wilson, the smiling Martin housekeeper, had cleared away the remains of their early supper, Alison, Martin and Danforth left the great hall and once again took up residence in the private solar. It had been impossible to speak openly at supper; the servants dined with them, as part of the wider household, and so discussion had to be kept to innocuous matters. Danforth wondered what Alison spoke about when she had only the servants for company. Though she denied it, it must be a lonely life. Already the light outside had faded to a flat, expressionless grey, the painted windows reflecting only what came from fire and candles within. It was, felt Danforth, cosy – pleasant. Alison deserved to have a child who lived not too far away to give her cheer and comfort in the depths of winter.
‘So, boys, shall we spend the evening in music? Though I’ve spent the winter alone, I’ve not stopped my playing.’ Martin scratched the back of his head, unable to meet her eye. ‘Aye, let’s have a merry evening and a bit of music.’
‘Maman, I … I had it in mind to put my head into the burgh.’
‘Into town? What for? We’ve ale and wine here.’ A strange note quivered in Alison’s voice, somewhere between disapproval and the first tendrils of panic. Martin had said nothing to Danforth of visiting the burgh.
‘I hardly ever see the place. I should like to see how it’s changed.’
‘It hasn’t changed. Not for the better anyway. There’s nothing to see.’ She sat down on her settle, fixing her hood to demonstrate that the matter, too, was settled. ‘Please, son. Leave it.’
‘Mr Danforth hasn’t seen the place for some time either, though, have you Simon?’ Danforth pursed his lips, unwilling to be drawn in. If there was one part of family life that he had never missed, it was argument. To her credit, Alison appeared to take pity on him, and refrained from demanding an opinion. Instead she sighed. ‘Aye, very well. I wish that you wouldn’t bother with the burgh, not this first night anyway, but one word from me and you do as you please. You’ve not changed. But … have a care what you do and what you say, son. For my sake. No trouble.’
‘No trouble, maman. I promise.’
‘And I don’t just mean … that … I mean the place is dangerous after dark.’
‘Aye, what’s that all about? You said “black tales”? Your letters said there had been murders too.’
‘Oh, so you do read them. Yes, there were a couple of masterless men found done to death a few weeks ago.’
‘Murder,’ said Danforth, raising his head.
‘Aye – rogues – men reputed to lead criminal gangs, smashed and stabbed. The rogues think they’ve got a free hand now, the times gone so lawless. Watch yourselves. Don’t go near St Mary’s Wynd.’
‘Where?’
‘Where the poor folk do their deeds. It’s all gone to pot, the burgh. Whoredom, young villains. The rumours are flying that there’s some master of them all, hiding in the shadows. Probably there’s no one, but you know how people love a tall tale.’
‘Tall tales do not kill,’ said Danforth.
‘Well, who knows?’ she shrugged.
‘The Provost, the town baillies – what do they do?’
‘Throw the corpses in the river. No one cares what becomes of masterless criminals. A blessing if they die, is what the council think, I guess. Anyway, stay together and you’ll be safe. Mr Danforth, keep an eye on this one.’ Her voice had turned hard. ‘Please. As you’re his friend. Don’t let him … cause trouble.’
Alarm began to flare in Danforth, blown by the bellows of realisation. Martin had told him months before that the burgh was home to a physician who had operated on his sister, Christian. The girl had suffered from an internal ulcer which had burst, causing her to expel a great deal of blood. The physician’s response had been to bleed her, which had done nothing but hasten death. Martin had sworn revenge on the fellow, though he had done nothing that Danforth knew of to bring it about. It might be that he wished to confront the man. Danforth wouldn’t stand rough justice. He would have to go with him in case that was his intent.
‘There’s just one thing, maman.’
‘Hmm?’
‘Why do you keep that Furay wench as a friend. She seems to me an arrogant bitch.’
‘Watch your mouth, Arnaud. You’re not too old to go over my knee.’
‘Sorry. But she did nothing but complain about papa’s – about your – home.’
‘Ah,’ said Alison, relaxing a little. Her face turned contemplative. ‘That. Aye, she must seem tiresome. But she’s a poor thing. Not in money, maybe, but in her heart. Lonely, I think, in want of company. It’s why she is so full of stories and bluster – she just wants to impress, you know. She’s not well liked.’
‘I can see why.’
‘Be generous. I brought you up to be that. She’s sad little creature, friendless and alone.’
‘She has no children?’ asked Danforth.
‘None. I think it’s a sore point
that she believes herself barren. If it makes her feel better by coming here, by talking to me and feeling herself quite the important lady, then I am glad of it. She’s like a child herself, to be honest.’
‘You’re a soft hearted old lady all of a sudden.’
‘Don’t be cheeky, or you’ll be sleeping in the stable tonight. Mr Martin, once when this here was a lad, he decided to run away from home and go to France to be in the Scots Guard. His dad and the servants found him sleeping in the stable. And he’s been an ass ever since. Well, boys, off you go. Behave.’ She dismissed Martin with a flick of her hand but managed a smile.
They strode once again into the great hall, around the tables that were being dismantled by servants. Danforth said nothing. A disagreeable thought had chilled his heart at Alison’s words. Was he, too, a sad little creature, friendless and alone, accepted into the Martin household due to the family’s generous spirit?
5
It was too far to walk into the town, which, although renowned as one of the first four royal burghs, was nevertheless a small place of scarcely over a thousand people. They retrieved Woebegone and Coureur from Graeme and took off, passing fenced orchards and then a high stone wall that marked the monastery of the Greyfriars.
On their right, fences guarding tofts – those long rear gardens of townhouses – began to rise, along with the hideous reek of rotting meat as they passed the Back Raw, where the fleshers skinned their meat. Here was the poorest part of town, where the rubbish from the top of the hill rolled, and only the most indigent and hopeless dwelled in huts. Breathing shallowly, they hurried on, turning right through the Back Raw and entering onto the Hiegait. On this broad road, Stirling’s high street, sat the ubiquitous Tolbooth and its constant companion, the market cross, alongside a great beam for weights and measures. The fine stone houses on either side of the street were tall, each having floors stacked upon floors in an effort to show their inhabitants’ wealth and status. Like the Martin house, most of them had stone steps leading up to the first floor, meaner doors underneath for the servants who worked on the ground. Danforth wondered which belonged to the Furays, whilst Martin down over Coureur’s side.
‘C’mon, Simon. No need to ride about the high street like wild men bearing news.’ At the far end of the Hiegait, on their left, Danforth knew the parish church lay: the extraordinarily-named Parish Church of the Holy Rude of the Royal Burgh of Stirling. He had visited it before, when he had been in Stirling with the Cardinal. But he had only ever passed through the town. As he was invariably in close attendance on King James, Beaton and his servants had been given lodging within the castle precincts.
‘A shame we can’t hear a service isn’t it?’ asked Martin, catching the line of Danforth’s gaze.
‘Aye, and that makes the walk a fruitless venture. Why did you bring me here?’
‘Only to look upon the place.’
‘A fine sight,’ said Danforth, rolling his eyes. About them, merchants were taking apart portable booths. The town had a pleasant layout – at the top of the rock sat the royal castle, beneath it the great parish church, and then the fine houses at the head of the Hiegait, followed by the Tolbooth – the burgh’s central courthouse, jail and meeting place – and the merchants’ shops. It all fit nicely. He cast a glance right, to the lower Hiegait, where the houses turned shabbier, many still made of wood. Just as at the Back Raw, the burgh’s dregs must have been washed downhill, fetching up at the bottom. Few lights burned in those windows, if the homes even possessed windows.
‘It’s late in the day.’ Far above and to the left of them a voice suddenly screeched a warning, and a bucket of waste was thrown out. It spattered the ground some yards from the sewer channel. ‘What an aim,’ said Martin. ‘I wouln’t like to see them at the archery butts.’ His jesting was automatic, free of his usual smiling cheer. His expression had turned intent. ‘Ho, here’s a place that draws my eye.’ Already he had begun leading his horse across the road and to the right, to the blank front of a shuttered shop. Danforth was not surprised to see that the weathered sign which hung outside it, still bearing the load of a coating of snow, was that of a physician. Grasping Woebegone’s reins tightly, he gulped in some cold air and followed, already trying to frame what he might say.
‘Arnaud, I wish that you would not do this. You made a pledge to–’
‘Gone, the bastard.’
‘What?’
‘McKenzie,’ said Martin, tying his horse’s reins to one of the hitching posts that sat at intervals before the shopfronts. Danforth did the same, grudgingly. ‘The physician. See – these windows have been shuttered for some time.’ Danforth looked. Snow, muck and grime had accumulated in the corners and along the bottoms of the wooden frames. ‘I’m going in.’
‘You cannot do that!’ Danforth’s words fell into the night, lost in wintry mist, as Martin put his shoulder to the door of the shop, nearly falling to the ground as it swung open easily. Danforth cast a look up and down the Hiegait, and then stepped furtively after him.
It took some moments for their eyes to grow accustomed to the gloom. Though it was dull outside, winter twilight still hung in shifting hues. Inside, the place was dark and, in the weak light that filtered in from the door, empty. Shelves still stood, rough wood, and a battered counter, but no medicines or books were left. The wall sconces contained a few half-spent torches, but even the furniture had been taken. All that remained was a stained crucible, too heavy to be carried away. The air was thick with a coppery smell – the unmistakable tang of old blood.
‘There,’ said Danforth, exhaling relief. ‘This Dr McKenzie has left the burgh.’
‘Doctor? He had no more learning than a gutter whore. He can run, but he can’t run to the ends of the earth.’
‘Arnaud … I wish you would let this matter go, as you have often advised me to do with … matters. I cannot think your sister would wish you to behave as you are bent on doing.’ He paused, colouring, unsure if he had gone too far. He had not intended to mention the girl. Martin only looked at him, his expression difficult to read in the dark, but seemingly impassive. After a few beats, he pushed past him and back out into the street, kicking the door hard as he went. Danforth scurried after him.
‘What are you men about? Who are you?’ Danforth jumped at the piping voice, feeling suddenly like a wayward child caught trespassing. Absurdly, the words, ‘he made me do it’ raced through his head.
‘We’re looking for McKenzie, the physician late of the burgh. He was tenant of this place the summer last.’
‘Oh,’ said a scrawny, elderly man with wisps of grey hair forming a wild crown around his bald head. ‘That butcher.’
‘The same, as I understand,’ said Danforth, hoping to appear composed, in control again. The man peered at him.
‘He has then flown the burgh?’
‘He might as well have, but not quite. He shut up that place,’ said the old man, pointing a finger at the shop, ‘and retired somewhere down there.’ The same finger turned in the direction of the lower Hiegait. ‘Commonly folk are banished from the burgh and wash up there like scum. McKenzie banished himself.’
‘What lies down there?’ asked Danforth. At the gloomy lower end of the street, it formed a T.
‘St Mary’s Wynd,’ said Martin. ‘The port out of the burgh is off to the left – it goes to the old Stirling Bridge. Baker Street’s off to the right.’
‘That’s right,’ said their companion. ‘But the wynd is lately taken up by low places, wee vennels full of gambling dens and stews. Decent folk won’t wander down there after dark.’
‘A place where decent folk won’t tread sounds right for McKenzie, the bastard.’
‘Aye, that’s true.’
‘And the burgesses and the town council know of this place?’ asked Danforth, ‘and do nothing?’
‘Why should they bother? It’s a good thing for them. If the rougher sorts are left unmolested in their own pits, they’re contained, and ca
nnae infect the God-fearing amongst us.’ Danforth frowned. So that was what lay beneath the level of the craftsmen, the merchants and the poor – the common criminals. And the authorities looked through their fingers at them. The late king had been a great proponent of justice and the enforcement of laws, even if he had rarely been able to command the realm to administer them. Even so, the criminal classes must feel themselves greatly emboldened by his death, as Alison had said. Royal justice was now in the hands of a vacillating governor on behalf of a suckling girl. This was their time.
‘Anyhow, it’s glad I am that McKenzie no longer shows his crabbit face around here. We can all sleep easier at night.’
‘Less in fear of your lives?’ asked Martin.
‘Less awakened by the sounds of him hammering and banging.’
‘A physician hammering and banging?’ Danforth cocked an eyebrow.
‘He was up to all kinds.’ A nasty gleam shone in the man’s eye. ‘He entertained all kinds, of the poorest sort, and he was a noisy creature at that.’ Danforth sucked in his cheeks in a show of righteous indignation at the bawdy implication. ‘But that won’t bother the wynd or its rats. Well, sirs, it’s turning right cauld again. These nights – even when it’s mild in the day, it’s fearsome cauld at night. Good evening to you.’ The balding man gathered his cloak about his throat to prove his point and then shuffled away, casting one last glance back to see what they were doing. Martin was still staring down the Hiegait, his back an indistinct blur. The night had started to come on.
‘Come, Arnaud, let us go. The man is ruined. Leave him to rot in his own destitution and depravity.’
‘I’m going down there.’
‘Into the lair of the criminals? In search of this McKenzie? He has fallen from grace, Martin. He is damned already.’
‘I didn’t say you need come.’
‘And I shall not.’ Danforth stood his ground, looping Woebegone’s rein around his wrist. ‘You are behaving as a child, unthinking and foolish. No trouble, you promised your mother. I am returning to the house and … and if Mistress Geddes asks why her son is not with me, I … I shall not lie to the lady.’
The Royal Burgh Page 5