The Royal Burgh

by Veerapen, Steven

  Martin suspected blackmail to be the motive: some fellow from her past killing her in a rage after she failed to deliver money for their silence. It was also possible that her husband had killed her, or procured someone to do it, out of shame or fear of her past life becoming known. Still it was possible that someone unknown entirely had done the deed, some creature from her past who killed her for reasons unknown. The book in her room had come from the old stew that had once employed her. The coin was more problematic. Where might a lady procure a counterfeit coin? Who might make such a thing? Where was the rest of the illicit treasury – for a single coin was surely not the extent of it? What, he kept thinking, did Madeleine Furay see before she died? Whose face did she look into with anger and defiance? Who bore down on her, extinguishing her life? And where did the creature creep, and where was he now? Was he aware that he was being hunted? Was he putting on some mask and living, steeped in guile, amongst the townspeople?

  The questions had no answers, or at least none he wished to countenance. They chased him into sleep and troublesome dreams. In one dream, dark shapes moved about like little gnomes, and he could smell the sulphur and stink of their labour, hear their agonised screams as they toiled. He breathed it in, choked and coughed, and his eyes shot open. They were raw. The screaming was real. All about him was smoke and muffled shrieking.

  The Martin house was on fire.

  14

  Danforth rolled sideways off the bed, caught in the covers. It was easier to breath on the floor, easier to see, and he kicked himself free, reaching as he did so for his charm, his St Adelaide. On hands and knees he turned towards Martin’s cot. Its occupant was just waking up, coughing and retching as Danforth had done. He began to crawl towards it as Martin sprang up, the upper half of his body shrouded in smoke.

  ‘Arnaud,’ croaked Danforth. His throat and lungs instantly seared, as though he had gulped down hard liquor. He bent his head to the wooden floor, closing his eyes. If he tried to breathe too deeply, he’d suffocate. Something grasped at his shoulders and his eyes shot open. Martin had crossed to him on his knees, his cloak thrown over his head and shoulders, and was dragging him forward.

  ‘Maman,’ he breathed, his face close to Danforth’s. ‘I must save maman.’ The shrieking had come from outside the bedchamber.

  ‘Wait,’ said Danforth. ‘Something on your feet, find boots, anything.’ Both grabbed at the light boots beside their beds, sliding them on. Though there was much smoke, there was no sign of flames. On their knees, they scudded towards the door and into the light.

  To their left the passage curved up a narrow staircase, beyond which was Alison’s room. There was no fire visible in that direction, but smoke seemed to be getting sucked towards it. Martin hopped up, running for the stairs, head low. Danforth turned to the right, where the main staircase lay. Light danced up the walls, the laughing herald of a great fire. For a moment he stared at it stupidly. He had not quite woken up, and dimly wondered if he was still dreaming. He breathed again. The tight pain stung life into him. He turned and raced after Martin.

  Alison’s room was untouched, but she was hunched on the floor, wrestling a nightdress over the face of a prone figure. Above her the smoke collected in thick banks, seeking release. Martin reached her and tried to wrench her up, but she shook him off. Crossing the room at a jog, Danforth realised that Mistress Wilson, Alison’s housekeeper, was insensible on the floor, her mistress trying to protect her face.

  ‘We must flee, maman, whilst we can,’ shouted Martin.

  ‘No, I have to carry Wilson. She came in screaming and fainted.’ Alison’s voice was calm, but her eyes were glazed and unfocused. ‘I have to carry Wilson,’ she repeated. Danforth looked around the chamber. The good bed was festooned with hangings, which would catch light easily, should the fire reach them. Some little religious embroideries were nailed to the walls. Also apt to go up.

  ‘Arnaud, take your mother,’ he said. Martin looked up at him, shock on his face. He looked very young, and very frightened. ‘Mistress Geddes, I shall take charge of Wilson. Put on shoes, strong shoes.’ Alison turned to look at him, and the motion seemed to rouse her.

  ‘Bless you, Simon,’ she said. She rocked her weight, standing with a crack audible even over the distant but persistent roar of flames. ‘Come, Arnaud.’ She laced her arm through her son’s and he clung to it. ‘Can we get down the staircase?’

  ‘Is there no other way, mistress?’ Danforth looked to a window, tiny and square. Even if they could have fitted through it, the drop would be fatal.

  ‘No.’

  ‘Then we must.’

  Danforth bent, threading his arms underneath Wilson’s armpits and hauling her into a sitting position. Her head lolled forward. Panic that she might already be gone struck him. He quelled it. Stood up. Dragged her. She was an old woman, running towards fat but still frail. Mercifully, she was far shorter than he was. He stooped briefly to wrestle one arm under her knees, and in one motion swept her into his arms. It was a struggle. He was a slim man, not given to strenuous exercise. Briefly, Wilson’s eyes fluttered and stared weakly at him before closing again. ‘Peace, Mistress Wilson,’ he whispered. ‘Blessed Mary ever virgin, protect us.’

  Danforth looked between Alison and Martin, gauging which was the calmest. ‘Mistress Geddes,’ he said, ‘follow me. Both of you.’ He made towards the door, turning sideways to edge through it, careful of Wilson’s jutting head and legs.

  The hall had heated to an uncomfortable intensity, still funnelling the heat and smoke from the fire below. He kept his back to the left wall as he passed down small staircase and began the journey towards the source of the inferno. Every halting, jerking step brought further heat, further confusion, further fear. And further weakness. Sweat popped on his brow, making streaks down his face. Already his arms were starting to scream with exertion, in protest at the dead weight of Wilson. Once again it was becoming difficult to breathe, and so he sipped at the air, keeping his head bent over Wilson’s face to screen her.

  He paused at the central staircase, looking over his shoulder to ensure that Alison and Martin were following. They were, determination on each face. In the bright light that had illuminated the hall, they looked curiously similar. Danforth had never noticed how much before. He turned back to the staircase and began making his way down, legs trembling with strain and with fear that he’d lose his footing, falling with Wilson into the flames below.

  Gradually, the hall rose into sight. Here the flames burned with a greedy, mindless fury, the wood panelling feeding them. The painted windows of oiled linen were blazing, spitting flames into the room. There they raced across carpets and licked at the chairs and trestles lined neatly against the walls. They had, Danforth realised, very little time.

  He set off, still clinging fly-like to the wall furthest from the flames. What started it, his increasingly foggy mind rasped. What caused this great anger? He felt stinging tears begin to slide down his face, mingling with sweat. This quiet little refuge was being ravaged, this home gutted in a raging torrent of orange and yellow. Alison ploughed into his back, setting him moving again. She did not glance around the room. She did not pause to take stock of the destruction of her property.

  Danforth made it to the door of the house and stopped. He couldn’t open it without releasing Mistress Wilson. Alison slid around him, dragging Martin by the hand. Both were saying something, but the fire was too deafening for them to be heard. By Martin’s tugging at her, it seemed that he wanted to go into the hall, to save or retrieve something. Behind them, an even louder noise began. The fire had reached wooden ceiling.

  Alison threw the door open, and a cold, welcome gust overcame them. For a moment it fought with the fire, one element wrestling with another. Titans, thought Danforth: two great Titans. The fire won, sucking the air in, absorbing it, using it as a grotesque fuel and swelling with uproarious laughter. As they spilled out into the cold, sucking gratefully at the night air, they hea
rd another crash behind them as a burning crossbeam fell to the floor.

  Danforth immediately sat on the top step, catching his breath, Wilson resting on his thighs. Once he had satisfied his lungs, he began gently to slide down, step—by–step, on his backside, as a child might. Still he cradled Wilson’s head in one crooked elbow, his other under her knees.

  Martin, still at the front door, turned to look at the house. He had bent, his hands on his knees, and was yelling something. Alison took a firm grip of his arm, whispered something very close to his ear, and then dragged him down the steps, slowly enough to remain behind Danforth as he laboured to the bottom.

  All four waded around the boggy ground at the foot of the stairs, welcoming the cold, sludgy feel of it. They then sat upon the wet grass. Sleet was falling, hissing and fizzing at it met the flames. For several minutes, they sat in dazed silence, looking up at the house. The fire had reached the roof, and the place looked like a huge tallow candle burning against the dark, tempestuous sky. One by one the windows flared and popped.

  ‘Papa’s home,’ Martin kept muttering.

  ‘The servants,’ said Alison suddenly. ‘Sweet Jesus, the servants, the others!’ She looked around, unmindful of her sodden, dirty nightdress. Danforth counted. In addition to Wilson, there was Gillespie, a cook, and Graeme the ostler. He stood gently, shivering in his shirtsleeves, leaving Wilson supine on the wet ground.

  ‘Come, Arnaud. Mistress, we shall see to the servants. Where do they sleep?’

  ‘Under the hall.’ She waved a hand beneath the steps which they had descended.

  ‘There is an escape, some postern?’

  ‘Yes, for trade.’

  ‘Then they are likely to be safe. Come, Arnaud,’ he said again, more firmly. Martin was looking up at the house again, his face now set and angry. ‘Mistress, tend to Wilson. Put your arms around her, keep the foul weather from her.’

  Danforth dragged Martin from his thoughts, leading him around the house. Above them it spat out more flames, which drifted in the air to be extinguished when they met the wet ground. The building, he realised, would likely be routed, the fire not satisfied until only the stout, stone walls remained, charred but standing. Woebegone and Coureur were in his mind as much the servants.

  Thankfully, over the gusting wind and fire above, the sound of terrified whinnying met them as they reached the back of the house, where lay a tiny walled courtyard and stables. Graeme gripped the reins of the three horses, including Alison’s nag, and was leading them around in circles, trying unsuccessfully to soothe them. Seated on the ground was the cook, a thin, sprightly-looking old man clutching a large pot with some smaller ones slotted into it. Standing next to him was the austere Gillespie, his arms wrapped around a strongbox: the Martin family’s treasury. All alive, thought Danforth. Thank God. Yet the house was in its death throes, its ethereal light giving the survivors a heathenish look.

  ‘He’s failed,’ said Martin, before spitting on the ground. ‘The goddamn bastard’s failed.’ Danforth turned, unsure of his meaning. He looked at his friend and wondered suddenly if the young man had gone mad. Martin looked wild, flakes of wet snow lighting on his dark head, fluttering on his eyelashes. Danforth stifled an urge to cross himself.

  ‘What do you say, Arnaud?’

  ‘He has failed.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Our murderer. Who else could have done this evil, tried to burn us as we slept?’

  Danforth swallowed. It was painful, his throat tender and narrow. He hadn’t considered that the fire might have been deliberately set. Some accident, he had assumed – a candle fallen, a log rolled from a hearth. Still it might be so.

  ‘Do not reach such a conclusion, Arnaud. Not yet. We shall know more anon.’ Martin spat at the ground again, before wrapping his arms around himself.

  The servants caught sight of them, smiles spreading across their faces. The cook hauled himself up stiffly, and the little group began lumbering towards them. Woebegone and Coureur ceased their fretting at the sight of their masters.

  ‘The lord be praised,’ intoned Gillespie in his high, emotionless voice. ‘How does the mistress? Where is the mistress?’

  ‘She’s well,’ said Martin. ‘My mother and Wilson are in front of the wreckage.’ A hard, bitter edge had come into his voice.

  ‘Then let us join them, young master.’

  The entire household thus assembled before the Martin house, watching it scream and cry out in pain. Upon the whole assembly had fallen that shocked, unthinking, uncaring mood that prevails after a disaster, after survival has somehow been assured but acceptance has not. Mistress Wilson had awoken, her faint and collapse forgotten, and she lay crying in Alison’s arms. They stood and sat there for some time, until the noise of horses and men broke the eerie spell.

  Provost Cochran, followed by the baillies, followed by a company of townspeople and some castle guards armed with halberds descended. The Provost addressed Martin.

  ‘Mr Martin, the great fire was seen from the castle. The cry was put out, and these good people are come to save the souls of any trapped within. How many are inside?’ He looked up at the house without enthusiasm.

  ‘We’re all escaped,’ said Martin.

  ‘Then God be praised. The house, I fear, shall not.’

  ‘No,’ said Alison, rising to meet him. ‘No, my house is gone. Can’t help that. My household hasn’t.’

  ‘We must see to this business,’ said Cochran. He looked around at the people he had led, giving the impression of a man eager to be seen to be doing something. ‘The town burn! You men, form a line to the burn. You have buckets about you; use ‘em. Let us aid the rain and the snow and make an end of this fire.’

  The night burned itself out, the chain of townspeople passing buckets of water back and forth aimlessly, dousing stone walls and aiming at flames far above them. The Martin household did not join in, each member spent by the remorseless flight to safety. They sat in silence whilst their erstwhile rescuers chattered. Some curious women had accompanied their husbands, and they flitted about, talking excitedly.

  ‘Oh, Mistress Geddes, your beautiful house.’

  ‘Och, all the auld master’s right good wood panellin’ gone.’

  ‘You must stay with us.’

  ‘You’ve a home wi’ us, petal.’

  ‘Shall you have it rebuilt? The dowager’ll be coming soon, she’ll have masons.’ Alison ignored them, standing stoically, a bent finger in her mouth. At one point, the people fighting the fire gasped as one when the great roof fell in, issuing a shower of sparks. Still the Martins stood silent.

  As dawn began to break, the fire abated, pressed downwards, hissing and clawing at the fading darkness. The tower house had turned to a blackened shell, its walls gaunt and hollowed out. The townspeople, expressing their pity, began to depart. Having lost nothing but a night’s sleep, they drifted off, saddened but indifferent. Danforth watched them. He could empathise. It was easy to become part of someone else’s tragedy, a spectator or a sympathiser, but it was difficult to do much more than offer platitudes.

  ‘We must go somewhere,’ he said, his eyes still following the departing crowd. ‘We have little about us.’ His light boots were soaked through, his toes numb. He stared into faces that reflected his own: soot-blackened, red-eyed and hunted.

  A cough turned him. Provost Cochran lingered, accompanied by a guard in the colours of the Stewarts: scarlet and yellow – the colour of flames. ‘Sir, master, mistress …’ He looked around at them all, uncertain. Sweat glistened on his face, shining in the morning light. ‘We think – we are agreed – that the fire was wrought by man.’ Danforth stiffened. Cochran held out a wooden torch, half burnt. It looked like a charred bone. ‘Divers of these lie about the place. I fancy sundry of them were hurled above, at the windows.’

  Danforth turned to Martin, but his jaws were taut and his eyes blazing, fixed on the torch.

  15

  Provost Cochran an
d his remaining company helped convey Danforth and the Martins into the town, providing horses for the servants. Martin led his household in a grim little procession, whilst Danforth rode alongside the Provost. In the trees around them the birds had begun their mindless wittering, hiding amongst the bare branches. It seemed almost as if they were whistling and calling to one another in an excited gabble, full of the news of the fire.

  ‘This is a bad business,’ called Cochran, just loud enough to be heard by Danforth.

  ‘It is that.’ Danforth was in no mood for conversation. The events of the night still had not taken on corporeality. Still they seemed part of some awesome, dreadful dream.

  ‘With the men of the castle aware of the fire and its cause, there shall be a great tumult if the man is not taken, and sharply.’ Danforth only nodded slowly. It was apparent that Cochran had selected him as the easiest of the survivors to whom he might delegate responsibility. The servants were of no great credit, Alison was a woman, and Martin too mercurial.

  ‘Then you and your baillies must find him sharply.’ Cochran faltered for a second, but soon shook his horse forward.

  ‘It seems to me, sir, that the doing of this black act might begin a blood feud. The baillies and I might try to find him, of course.’ He stroked his beard. ‘Yet we might not. It is you have been seeking to discover the killer that has once visited his wicked crime upon the town.’