The Royal Burgh

by Veerapen, Steven

  ‘I’m for bed, mon ami,’ said Martin eventually, downing the last of his drink and wiping his neat mouth with the back of his hand. He belched. ‘Ah, that’s the good stuff. I’ve been needing that since before my mother retired. “Don’t belch in company, Arnaud”’

  Nodding slowly, his mind still on the dead woman, Danforth followed him upstairs. Thanks to the liquor, sleep came upon them easily, numbing and deadening. Both slept well. That night.

  12

  They awoke with headaches, the wages of their easy night of strong liquor and not quite enough food. They tarried in the house until dinner, when everyone except Alison – who was still nursing her cold and spoke in the muffled tones that betrayed a blocked nose – ate ravenously. There were only a few months until Danforth’s thirtieth birthday. He could not, he felt, drink like a young man, and certainly not like a Scotsman, as once he might have. As usual, Martin seemed ebullient enough, nowhere near so harshly touched by an evening of flowing drink. Well, Danforth thought, if hangovers hadn’t made their acquaintance with him yet, they soon would.

  After dinner, they prepared, grudgingly, to go into the burgh again, hoping to ask more questions, receive more ambivalent answers, and hopefully draw together enough threads for a whole embroidery. It had snowed again during the night, this time depositing not just a flurry, but a thin, brittle crust. The road through the Back Raw and on to the Hiegait was slippery, the horses unsure. The rooftops and steps of Stirling glittered, and the sun, making a rare appearance from behind a bank of clouds, dyed the ridges of white a burning orange. The atmosphere was almost festive, which was a good thing. It was market day.

  ‘You see,’ said Martin, the first he had spoken since leaving the house, ‘the sun always shines on Stirling’s market day. Jesus, but I’ve one hell of a thirst on me. Might we have something to drink?’

  ‘Yes.’ Danforth felt the same. They had swung down from their horses before riding onto the Hiegait, and they tied them up, Danforth too tired to care that it might be hazardous to leave them. After all, no one would touch another man’s horse on the day the baillies were out four-strong, keeping an eye out for any trouble, disorder or crime. They’d stick to the high street, of course. Beyond their gaze, few cared what deals might be struck.

  They bought ale from a vendor, begging the most watered-down stuff he could provide, and then handed the mugs back. The cold drinks sent shivers through Danforth, and he looked for somewhere that might provide heat. The hanging wooden sign of a silversmith caught his eye, jutting on a pole before a plain, wooden shopfront. He jabbed Martin’s arm. ‘Martin, I think I should like a look in that place.’ Shrugging, Martin followed him.

  ‘Greetings, my young friends,’ said a round, grandfatherly man, his face red. He stood behind his counter. Shelves lined the walls, occupied by all manner of metallic objects. Dull candlesticks glinted in the bright firelight which warmed and lit the place, standing proudly beside differently-sized spoons, some mugs and cups, and blunt-looking knives. Little boxes of that perennial favourite, pins for fastening ladies’ headdresses and sleeves, had pride of place. There were no other customers, the shops being generally quieter on market day, with the assumption being that the better deals were to be found outside. ‘Are you come to order some fancywork for your young ladies? The feast of St Valentine draws near, sirs; don’t leave ‘em wanting. I’ve some fine little hearts, as good – no, better – than you’d find in the Luckenbooths of Edinburgh town. Feel like I’ve done nothing but hammer hearts for weeks!’

  ‘I am a widower,’ said Danforth. Before he could speak further, the silversmith went on, his white beard fanning over his prominent chest.

  ‘Och, but it’s the younger Martin! I heard tell you had a girl, young master, some time back. Is it come time to make her an honest goodwife?’

  Martin drew in his cheeks, shifting his weight from foot to foot. ‘Mr Martin and I are not come to trade, I am afraid,’ said Danforth.

  ‘Oh, and who might you be, sir?’

  ‘I am Mr Danforth, Martin’s colleague.’

  ‘You work for the Lord Cardinal too, sir?’

  ‘I do.’

  ‘How fares his Grace? Has he yet escaped hand of that old English devil that they say reaches for him?’

  ‘We have no news of his Grace’s condition,’ said Martin. ‘Danforth, this is Mr Spence.’

  ‘A pleasure, sir,’ said Danforth. Spence nodded, smiling.

  ‘We all await the dowager in Stirling, sir. She’s a good lady, and a friend to your master. Together they shall put things to rights, eh?’

  ‘I pray it be so. Mr Spence, I would have you look upon something, and ask what you might know of its origin. I should like you to say nothing of our visit.’ Spence leant forward, intrigued, whilst Danforth reached under his cloak and brought out the brass coin. Martin raised an eyebrow at the sight of it.

  ‘A false coin, sir,’ was Spence’s assessment. He tutted. ‘That’s a bad business. I shan’t have nothing to do with the likes of that.’ He drew back, as though the thing were poisonous.

  ‘We know of its falsity,’ said Danforth. ‘What can you tell us of its nature?’

  ‘Brass, by the look of it.’ Danforth waited. Spence looked again, curiosity overcoming fear. ‘Made to look like a shining ducat.’

  ‘How might such a thing be made?’

  ‘By some man of skill, I should think.’

  ‘It is then a great skill?’

  ‘Not so very great, sir. Any fellow with a little learning and reading, who might find the materials, could furnish such stuff, and then cut, hammer and polish it.’

  ‘A smith, of some kind?’

  ‘No smith worthy of a guild would dare to work in such a base art. No, sir, you want no whitesmith or blacksmith, ‘less he be thrown from the trade. Is this one of a great many?’

  ‘Not that we have yet discovered.’

  ‘For only a coin or two, a purse-full, you might find a fellow skilled in mixing metals, with perhaps a portable forge. He’d need no great smithy’s. On the dark side of the trade,’ he said, lowering his voice despite the shop’s emptiness, ‘you might find a creature who likes one of these hermian books.’

  ‘Hermian?’ asked Martin, turning a baffled face to Danforth.

  ‘Do you mean Hermetic, Mr Spence?’

  ‘Aye, if you like.’ Spence shrugged. ‘There are always men will claim vast knowledge and turn their hand to making trifles, for to fool the weak-minded. Good men have no traffic with them, and so they’ll sell their false wares to the lowly.’

  ‘Thank you, Mr Spence,’ said Danforth. ‘You have been most helpful.’ He bowed deeply, whilst Martin doffed his cap.

  ‘It’s my pleasure, gentlemen. Martin, you tell your mother I was asking for her. Tell her we’ve new candlesticks will light up that great house.’

  ‘I shall, sir.’

  ‘And you’re sure you’ve no young ladies would like a little token for the honour of St Valentine?’

  ‘Alas, no,’ said Martin, ‘but when I do, sir, I’ll be straight back round.’

  ‘Very good, very good.’

  They left the warm silversmith’s and stepped back into ice, bustle and noise. ‘I think we learned little there,’ said Martin.

  ‘Is that so, sir? I learned a great deal.’

  ‘Would you care to share this magnificent knowledge?’ Danforth only gave him a smug smile. In truth he hadn’t learned much at all. Unless …

  All around them people were skidding through the snow, laughing, arms laced through arms. A throng of ladies stood queued up at one booth, all of them decked out in finery.

  ‘What is sold out of there?’ asked Danforth.

  ‘Hmm?’ Martin looked at where he was pointing. ‘Oh, that would be the Cowanes’ goods.’

  ‘Who are the Cowanes?’

  ‘They’re Stirling’s most, uh, prodigious merchants, I guess you’d say.’ Martin looked at him as though he were stupid. ‘They se
ll fish and wool abroad and bring in spices. They used to provide goods for the old king up at the castle. I daresay they shall do so for the queen, should she be taken there. By the dowager, I mean.’

  One of Danforth’s eyebrows arched at the mention of spices. ‘Should our grieving friend Walter Furay have traffic with this family?’

  ‘I can’t say, sir. Though they’re good people. Wealthy people.’

  ‘And you think him not a good person?’

  ‘I did not,’ sighed Martin, not, apparently, up for wordplay, ‘say that. I don’t actually know. Yet in truth I said I’ve no liking for him, rat-like little bugger.’

  ‘You ought not to judge a man on his appearance, Mr Martin.’

  ‘Aye – so you found him to be a man of grace and wit then?’ Danforth ignored him. ‘Och, look how these goodwives strive to be seen at the Cowanes. It’s the same every market day I’ve ever seen – ladies wish it to be known about the burgh that they can afford to buy goods from those whose wares furnish the royal tables. Come on, let’s sit down a spell. Standing will make us both him dizzy.’

  They took up residence on a low wooden bench that had been set up outside McTavish’s inn, presumably by the owner, to invite people to consider the even greater comfort within. It was a hard, weathered thing. From this vantage point they could see a juggler at work, four balls turning in the air. A group of children were gathered around him, cheering every time a ball glinted upwards in the sunlight, and jeering whenever one was lost. The jeering was invariably accompanied by a torrent of snowballs. Something pricked at Danforth. Alison had said that Madeleine Furay had liked to stand like a child and watch jugglers at work. Well, she would never see anything again, childish or otherwise.

  ‘He shall have no money thrown him by those fearsome little imps,’ said Danforth.

  ‘No. Let’s give him something.’ Martin threw some coins to the man, and something chimed dimly in Danforth’s head. Before he could turn the chime into something louder and clearer, a voice squawked at their back.

  ‘Only those lodging in the inn may have rest on our bench.’ They turned, standing up at the same time, to see the dour wife of Mr McTavish. She was leaning against a broom, glaring at them with what appeared to be her permanent scowl.

  ‘We do apologise, mistress …’ began Danforth. He could not remember the woman’s name, and unintentionally gave the last word the inflection of a question.

  ‘Scott,’ she said. She turned away from them, apparently satisfied with having spoiled someone’s leisure, and lay her broom by the open door of the inn. With the sun had come the beginnings of a thaw, and water dripped from the eaves onto her cap. She tutted.

  ‘Pray hold, Mistress Scott,’ said Danforth. She turned back to them, her own eyebrow raised. ‘Is your husband within? I should like to speak further with him, on a late tenant of your boarding house.’

  ‘Inn,’ she corrected him.

  ‘Quite. Is he within?’

  ‘No, sir.’

  ‘Then he is at market?’

  ‘I’m not the man’s gaoler, sir. When I see him, I’ll tell him you wish to speak with him.’ She gave them a sarcastic little nod and disappeared into the inn, slamming the door.

  ‘No gaoler, but a wife,’ said Martin. ‘Were I married to such a shrew, I think I’d be away from home when it suited me. And it’d suit me often. A good day in the branks is what that creature wants.’

  ‘Oh? I thought you always the protector of women, Arnaud.’

  ‘Women, yes, maybe. I don’t even know that I’d properly call that old bladder a woman.’

  ‘Well, perhaps her life is not a happy one,’ said Danforth. His was had turned soft.

  ‘Hummed to distraction, I warrant. C’mon, she can stick her hard bench where it fits and be welcome to it. Boot.’

  They wandered around the market for a while, buying food – unaccountably, both were still insatiably hungry – and looking at the burgh’s wares. As in any town, fine linens and silks, craftwork and cooking utensils, spurs and saddles and all manner of produce were displayed in shopfronts and stalls to their best advantage. Eventually they spotted Baillie Morris, purchasing combs for his great beard.

  ‘Gentlemen,’ he said, his face its usual impassive mask. ‘What news?’

  ‘Good morrow to you, sir,’ said Martin. ‘In truth we have little to report. How fares the business of the day?’

  ‘Och, it is as usual. No pickpockets, no knaves to trouble the cross or its people. No money trouble.’

  ‘Not the cross, no,’ said Danforth, receiving a quizzical look. ‘I meant to inquire of you whether you and your fellows had heard of any man of this burgh having departed of a sudden.’

  Morris ran his tongue under his lower lip, not meeting their gaze. ‘No, sir.’

  ‘Then our murderer tarries in the burgh, shameless at his deed.’

  ‘That might not be so, sir. It might be as the Provost believes, that some fellow came from without and killed the woman, and then he left as he came.’

  ‘It is possible.’

  ‘It’s more than that, it’s likely. Mistress Furay came from outside the burgh. She might have some lover in the past, or some enemy of whom we’ve no inkling. Everyone has a past. Better to leave the burgh untroubled, sir. Your man is not here.’ He gestured around the market cross. ‘All is good order in Stirling.’

  ‘I think not,’ said Danforth. ‘Master Baillie, twice now since our coming into the town have attempts been made to cozen us.’

  ‘What’s this?’ Morris’ eyes flew between Martin and Danforth.

  ‘It’s the God’s honest truth,’ said Martin. ‘Down the wynd, in Mr Sharp’s tavern.’

  ‘God’s blood, that place.’

  ‘The same,’ said Danforth. ‘A fellow calling himself Sir Andrew Boyle: a rough-looking fellow in garments that might have been stolen long since.’

  ‘You didn’t think to report the matter?’

  ‘To what end, sir? Twice this happened, and by the fellow’s speech I gather it is no new thing. And yet nothing has been done to tame the man, nor curb his behaviour. And,’ he added, ‘I shall say nothing about a house that lies off St Mary’s Wynd, advertising its sin to the world.’

  ‘Yet by saying nothing,’ said Morris tartly, clawing at his beard, ‘you say everything.’

  ‘Why, sir, is nothing done?’

  ‘Look, lads. I’m a plain man, I’ll speak plainly. Provost Cochran is content to let matters lie as they do. Old Forrester–’

  ‘Your fellow baillie?’ asked Danforth, recalling the man who had been with the Provost when they attended on the dead woman.

  ‘Yes, sir. Forrester’s all for reducing that house, for proceeding against the band which dwells in the wynd. He hopes to be Provost one day himself, and thereby to take up arms against it all. He reckons there’s some, I don’t know, some overlord of the rascals making himself king rat. He’d be rid of them all, flush them out.’

  ‘A fellow of vaulting ambition.’

  ‘He is that, aye. Well, he’s brother to a laird and son of a former Provost and knight, so why shouldn’t he be?’

  ‘You have none in that direction yourself, sir?’ asked Danforth, sensing resentment.

  ‘No,’ said Morris. ‘Provost, indeed. A man needs no more than a good woman to share his bed and a little money to keep him and her content. Yet the current Provost, though you understand I don’t speak against him, he thinks it better that such creatures as this criminal you’re after, and the big cheese himself, if he exists, are given a wee bit liberty to keep their antics to themselves. Provided they don’t intrude upon true, God-fearing people, they’re better left unmolested, he says. The people of the burgh accept this, sir, and don’t tread into places that might bring them into harm. Not these days. Not at night, especially. Provost Cochran hopes, in truth, that the rougher creatures, if kept together, will kill each other off and rid us of them without our commanding the attention of the castle.’
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  ‘A poor sort of plan, sir.’

  ‘Aye, but it’s not mine. The vennels off the wynd have ay had a black name. But they don’t hazard us, sirs. You might sleep true in your beds, even further from them than I am.’

  Morris left them, the three men each giving short bows.

  ‘What do we do now, Simon?’

  ‘I think,’ said Danforth, ‘that we must again step into that vulgar den and see if any of the fellows have indeed killed each other off.’

  ‘You want to go to Sharp’s tavern again? Shall we hazard the horses, and risk letting Boyle know we’re back?’

  ‘No,’ said Danforth, already shouldering his way through the drifting crowds, towards the lower Hiegait. ‘He knows both our horses now. Since I am now hardened in my lack of shame, I wish once again to speak to that gross wretch of a woman in her stew–’

  ‘The Old Nag, they call it.’

  ‘Named, then, for its mistress. And today I shall not be defeated by her lies, nor her manifold protestations.’

  They continued nudging their way towards the wynd, passing a humming Mr McTavish, who was today whistling rather than humming. He pretended not to see them, and they likewise. ‘Watch yourselves! Ruffians,’ cried out an old man as they barged past him. Danforth had steeled himself, though, uncaring of what might be thought of him. He kept his gaze fixed ahead as he crossed the Hiegait to the wynd, and thereafter down the narrower vennel, past Sharp’s tavern and to the stew.

  As he had the day before, he hammered on the door. Marjorie Sneddon opened it, and this time went immediately to close it when she realised who had returned. Danforth put his boot in the way, wincing and gritting his teeth as he heaved against it. Sneddon had not expected the assault, and instinctively drew back, calling on her husband.

  ‘Hold your tongue, woman,’ shouted Danforth. ‘But by all means, bring forth your bawd.’