The Royal Burgh

by Veerapen, Steven

  ‘You think, Provost, that the same man has done this great evil?’

  ‘I think it more than likely. Young Martin will, I should imagine, think the same.’ It was a reasonable assumption. Danforth was sure that the fellow who had slain Madeleine Furay had now tried to silence those investigating the crime. The whole town likely knew of their involvement. Such matters spread through towns like the fire that had destroyed the Martin house. But it was no sure thing, and certainly not to be conceded to a lazy Provost.

  ‘Let us say that you are right, sir. What good does this do?’

  ‘Tell me, Mr Danforth, what is it that you have discovered that might have led a man to make such an attempt on your lives? Have you some notion of the name of the man?’ Danforth tried to read the Provost’s expression, but the receding twilight was not good enough.

  ‘We have chanced upon no name, sir, in truth.’

  ‘Yet you have learned something?’ Danforth thought he sensed something strange in the Provost’s voice. It was too eager, too nervous of the answer.

  ‘Only matters touching the late Mistress Furay’s youthful errors, to which her husband was privy.’

  ‘Oh. Well, then, perhaps, being so deep in the matter, so close to it, it would be better if you continue until you have discovered the fellow. You and your young friend must now be blown strong by a need for vengeance. That can be a great aid to the pursuit of justice.’

  ‘You do not,’ said Danforth, ‘seem greatly compelled to ask what it is we discovered of Mistress Furay’s past.’

  ‘That is your affair, by my pledge and your commission.’ Again, a momentary pause – a discordant note. An unpleasant image began to form in Danforth’s mind. He had considered it before but rejected it. Now there seemed little reason to keep doing so. The truth must be got at. Weariness and sadness were gnawing at his stomach. ‘And so I think it meet that you pursue this monster to the last.’

  ‘At what cost, sir?’

  ‘I don’t understand. You requested no price.’

  ‘No,’ said Danforth, his nose in the air. ‘At what cost to me and young Martin? If all lies as you suggest, and that the killer of Madeleine Furay has hazarded our lives to seal our lips, then he might do so again. What you wish, sir, is for me and Martin to face some great danger, that you might not. Lambs to the slaughter.’

  ‘What else is there, Mr Danforth? You turn your face from Stirling and show it your backs? You let the man roam free?’

  To Danforth’s disgust, Provost Cochran had read him well. He would not flee from Stirling in fear, as he had allowed Martin to make him flee Edinburgh at the sight of a wrecked garden. A murder had been committed here, and now an attempt at several, likely by the same hand. Now the killer, prodded by the devil, had taken Martin’s home, Alison’s home, what he had fancied might be his own second home. One did not walk away from a battle like that, but donned armour.

  ‘I shall go nowhere,’ he said, ‘until the brute is caught and his life forfeit. Then you, sir, shall touch a torch to the great hearth that shall roast him alive, and the dogs shall lick his hot blood.’ Danforth shook hard on Woebegone’s reins, sending him leaping forward.

  The Provost left Danforth and the Martins on the Hiegait, close by the market cross and Tolbooth. The cold morning was beginning in earnest, people already up and setting about their business. Many of them passed to pay their condolences, some of whom had helped attack the fire. They tethered their horses. Alison was shivering, despite her son’s cloak. In the increasing light, Danforth noticed that she appeared to have aged suddenly, the lines in her face deepening.

  ‘We must find some lodging,’ she said. ‘Mistress Wilson isn’t well yet. She needs a bed, Mr Danforth. We all do. Oh, Simon, but you look as black as the night.’

  ‘You recall Mr McTavish and his wife?’

  ‘I’m afraid I do.’

  ‘I can think of no other good inn. I know of no other.’

  ‘Then we must advertise our presence and presume upon them. I confess I’ve no joy in it. That man always did unsettle me.’

  ‘You’ll have joy again, maman,’ said Martin. He came up beside her, his body tense. ‘You’ll have joy when your son kills the man who did this.’

  ‘Peace, Arnaud–’ began Danforth.

  ‘That’ll do, son. Now isn’t the time for this. Let’s get inside. Gillespie has saved our money. We’re not in the gutter yet. We’re not destitute, cast upon the winds.’ Her voice rattled in her chest. Her cold had not been helped by the night.

  They began to move towards McTavish’s inn when a shrill voice stopped them. ‘Ho, you Cardinal’s men.’ Danforth and Martin turned, each ready to vent anger on the man who hailed them. It was Humble, the hoary-haired old man who had lost his horse.

  ‘Sir, we neither know or care for your wretched beas–’

  ‘What’s that? My horse? But sir it’s back, and just as well as ever it was.’

  ‘Well, hurrah, sir,’ said Martin. ‘You’ve lost nothing. How blessed are you.’

  ‘It had been ridden hard in the night, and it’s a wee thing begrimed, but back it is. I just came over, sirs, to say how sorry I was about your house. We could see it from here – fearful sight. It was the wife reminded me what house it was, and I saw that yon young fellow there must be one of the Martin boys. Thank the Lord for the rain, eh? Though I never thought to be saying such a thing.’

  ‘You say the horse was ridden in the night?’ asked Danforth sharply.

  ‘Aye, manky it was. But I’ve tied it tight now, in the common stable behind the house. I’ll be watching, sir, the next time it’s on the Hiegait. Watching and waiting. If the varlet comes back, I’ll have him.’

  ‘Very good, Mr Humble. Be about your business.’

  ‘Aye. Good morrow to you all. Bless you, mistress.’ Humble hobbled away, tipping his cap at people he passed on the street as they crossed to avoid him.

  ‘What was that, Mr Danforth?’ asked Alison.

  ‘Nothing, mistress. Please, let us go.’

  They entered the McTavish inn, looking for all the world like a group of soldiers returned from battle. The place was sparkling clean. At the sound of the door, McTavish appeared from the back room. His face fell when he saw them. ‘Oh, dear me,’ he said. ‘Oh dear. No, no, we can’t have this.’

  ‘Mr McTavish,’ began Danforth, ‘Mistress Geddes and young Martin have suffered a great tragedy. Their house has fallen, like Troy under the Achaeans. They are in need of rest, sir, and warm beds. As am I.’

  ‘What can have happened? You smell like lums.’ Danforth took a sniff. The smell of burning, of soot, was strong indeed.

  ‘You don’t know?’

  ‘No, sir, I’m a good sleeper. I don’t keep well, sir, not well at all.’

  ‘Some vagrant devil sought to kill us in our beds,’ said Martin.

  ‘There has been fire, sir,’ said Danforth over him. ‘The house has been overcome, its belongings put to the flame. Yet we have means to pay, and so would lodge. No Christian soul could refuse.’

  McTavish looked around at them for a few seconds, his monotonous tune playing under his breath. ‘Then of course you shall tarry here, of course. We’re the finest inn in the burgh, mistress.’

  ‘Are you not the only inn in the burgh?’ asked Danforth.

  ‘Well … yes, that may be so. Come, come. Oh, but look at you.’ His eyes were on the clean floor. ‘Mistress Scott!’

  He bustled into the back to bark orders – or rather croak them – at his wife, before returning to show them upstairs. Alison and Wilson took the best chamber, Danforth and Martin opted for the second best, and the three servants were given a room usually reserved for the servants of visiting men. Danforth wondered idly which room Walter Furay and his man slept in. They sent Graeme to move the horses to the inn’s stable, left the women to rest, and then closed the door of their room. As soon as they had done so, Martin launched into his diatribe.

  ‘I’m going to k
ill him, Simon. This bastard has taken my mother’s home – the home my father brought her to – and has attempted to take her life. He’ll die for it. You watch and see if I don’t.’

  ‘He must be found first.’ Danforth stalked around the room. There were two cots, with good mattresses, a real table set with candlesticks, and a stool. The walls were painted. They reminded him of the painted walls in the stew, and then he thought of the painted windows in the Martin house, and how they had burst into flames. He closed his eyes. Martin’s tone worried him, the damage to his carefree nature troubling. It might be worth inviting him to some gentle mockery. ‘The elder Pliny,’ he said, ‘wrote in his Natural History of a strange beast called the Bonnacon.’ There was no response, no scorn at the allusion. ‘This creature dwelled in Macedonia and was harmless in its general aspect. Like a bull it bore sharp horns, but they curled backwards, that it might not engage in open, honest conflict with its hunters. Instead, it spewed from its back parts a foul dung, which burst forth into flames. By such means it confounded its pursuers, burning them to death and escaping: running and hiding, whilst maintaining its innocent mask. It could thus not be caught, nor even be found.’

  ‘He will be found, damn him, because I’ll find him.’ Martin did not take the bait and did not rouse himself to mockery. He sat on a cot, putting his elbows on his knees and his chin on his fists. He stared ahead, seemingly seeing nothing, but likely imagining the man who had attacked them going up in flames himself. Danforth had seen that kind of death. It was a dreadful way to go, slow and agonising, the skin shrivelling up and the blood hissing as it heated and spilled. It was the death that could so easily have taken them all the previous night. It was the death this man, whoever he was, had wanted for them.

  ‘Did you remark upon that old goat Humble’s speech?’ asked Danforth, dragging the stool from the desk and sitting across from Martin.

  ‘Aye, he has his horse. Lucky him, eh? The damned fool probably forgot where he tied it and was too shame-faced to admit to it.’

  ‘Yet he said that the beast was begrimed from riding and returned.’

  ‘A tale,’ said Martin, ‘told by a blockhead.’

  ‘Let us suppose it is true. What nature of man returns a stolen horse? Think, Martin. Or rather,’ he added more gently, ‘turn your mind away from the memories and the desires that I think plague you. What nature of man returns a stolen horse?’

  ‘I don’t know, Simon. A penitent one? A mad one? A gingerbread one? Who gives a fuck?’

  ‘Or perhaps a man not wishing to be hanged for the taking of it once his deed is done.’

  Martin’s eyes began to lose their angry intensity, fading but refocusing. ‘What, you think that the taker of the horse, the thief, rode it from the burgh to my mother’s house, and set his fire? And then he came back to town and put it back?’

  ‘It would be a small matter, easily done.’

  ‘But he might be seen. That damned fire roused the castle itself.’

  ‘Indeed, Arnaud. It caused a great tumult – fellows taking horse and men from the castle sent down to contain the blaze. If he were seen, who should take notice of one fellow amongst many, possessed of one horse amongst many?’

  The door opened, silencing them. Mistress Scott entered, carrying towels and a pile of folded material, on to of which sat a laver of clean water. She set them down on the desk. Her usual scowl had gone, replaced with an incongruous smile. ‘Good morrow, gentleman. It’s sorry I am for your troubles. Pray make use of these.’

  ‘What is this, mistress?’ asked Danforth, pointing at the folded cloth.

  ‘Fresh garments, sir.’

  ‘Garments? From where?’

  ‘Oh, but the people of the burgh have come to your aid. The ladies have brought spare clothes from their menfolk and given freely of their own clothing to the ladies in the room yonder.’ Danforth smiled. It was comforting to know that the people of Stirling were kind, that they were generous. They must like Alison Geddes and her household. ‘I bid you come down to dinner whenever you find fitting. The garderobe is downstairs, should you need easement.’ She bowed herself out, walking backwards and closing the door softly.

  ‘Such a change in a woman,’ murmured Danforth. ‘So inconstant a face.’ To his surprise, Martin grinned, the first smile he had given since the previous night. It cut a white slash across his smudged face.

  ‘We are now giving her and that husband of hers custom, and so she’s Madame Bountiful, our best friend and helpmeet. Remember what the Cardinal said: all sugar or all shite. No meeting in the middle. Och, I miss the old man. Still there’s nothing, no word of him. How do you think he fares?’ Danforth felt a blush creeping into his cheeks and was almost thankful for the soot. In truth, he had not given the Cardinal much thought for days, other than when he used his name to buy trust. He had asked no man for news of him and had ceased to worry about the conditions of his imprisonment.

  ‘I daresay his Grace fares better than most men deprived of their liberty.’ When great men were imprisoned, it was seldom in poor estate. Their punishment was exclusion from worldly matters, exile from knowledge and business. The Cardinal would be in no Tolbooth, but in some comfortable rooms, well attended and fed. An idea occurred to Danforth – or rather it crystallised. It had been forming for some time. Martin spoke again before he could voice it.

  ‘Returning to the matter, do you think that when we do find the man who took that old fellow’s horse, then we’ve found the man who set the fire, and by that means the man who took the old whore’s life?’

  ‘Do not call her that, Arnaud. It ill befits you.’

  ‘That took Mistress Furay’s life, then. Do you think it?’

  ‘Perhaps. Yet I wished to speak to you on the other matter, on the Cardinal.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘I would that we had news of his Grace.’

  ‘By what means?’

  This was the difficult part. Danforth was unsure how Martin might react, what excuses he might make, or what angry outbursts might result from the night’s broils. He decided to be direct. ‘I would that you leave Stirling, sir, immediately. Today.’ Martin jerked up from the cot. ‘Go forth to Edinburgh, Arnaud.’

  ‘Why should I go to Edinburgh? News of his Grace can reach us here, as well you know. Why should I be chased from my parents’ home?’

  ‘As you told me I should run from mine?’ Danforth’s tone was light.

  ‘It’s much different, Simon, and you know it. My mother’s home has been brought down about her ears, her life put in peril, and you would have me creep away, leaving the man who did it free?’

  ‘It is for your mother’s sake, Arnaud, that I ask this of you.’

  ‘Explain, sir.’

  ‘Your mother’s home is lost,’ Danforth sighed.

  ‘It might be rebuilt!’

  ‘Not today, Arnaud, nor tomorrow. She is a good lady. Do you wish her to be housed in this inn for weeks, or months, or years, else taken in by some kind ladies? Oh, they shall love her and think kindly of her. At first. Yet soon she shall become a burden to them, and they will wish her gone, even if they do not say it. And what of her household? No. You have a home no great distance from here – but two days’ ride in this season. Take her to your home and let her settle there.’

  ‘But, but, she’s unwell, some trouble in her chest. She has a surfeit of phlegm – too much to travel.’

  ‘Your mother, I think, is made of stronger stuff. And better she recovers in a house she can call her own.’

  ‘But … but … horses. We haven’t got the horses to convey such a company.’

  ‘Horses your mother’s name can purchase for hire with ease.’

  ‘You require me here, though,’ said Martin, his face falling into honest, defeated lines. ‘You can’t discover this killer alone. We know now how dangerous he is.’

  ‘Nor shall I. But this matter has touched us all too near. Your mother’s life has been threatened, even if she w
ere not the mark. Take her to safety. Take her to Edinburgh.’ Martin’s face fell as he tried to think of some other reason to demur. Danforth leapt into the silence once more. ‘I think our killer is going nowhere. You shall miss nothing.’

  ‘Ah,’ said Martin, ‘but will you be safe on your own? Presume, Simon, that I convey my mother to safety in Edinburgh. You’ll be left here quite alone, after a murderer’s tried to burn the roof over your head.’

  ‘I am not,’ countered Danforth, ‘so old nor so foolish that I cannot protect myself. I am no feeble old creature.’

  ‘No. Yet, and do not take this as an insult, Simon, you’re not the most worldly of gentlemen.’

  ‘How do you mean, sir?’

  ‘Only that you might find yourself discoursing upon some heathen philosopher or delivering a sermon in Scots on the want of piety shown by schismastics, and thereby not see our firebrand come up behind you with a dirk.’ Martin lay back again on the bed, closing his eyes and smiling.

  Danforth raised his chin, his face a mask of indignation. But he said nothing, refusing to rise to the bait. He allowed his friend to have the last thrust. Because he had won the duel. Martin would accompany his mother to Edinburgh.

  When they had gone, Danforth could see if the strange thoughts that had passed through his mind might be true.

  16

  Danforth and Martin dozed the rest of the morning, not waking until after noon. They were finally roused by Alison, who rapped lightly on their door. She was changed, her skin scrubbed clean, but her face retained its new, aged look. They admitted her, and she turned on the spot.

  ‘I don’t know much about the modern fashion,’ she said, ‘and I reckon that’s a good thing, for neither does the lass who gave me these clothes.’ The dress was grey and pink, the sleeves pinned to it heavy and wide. Its collar was cut square, as women had worn them back when Danforth lived in England, and it was matched in its age by one of the old rounded French hoods. He and Martin gave her a weak laugh. Danforth sensed it was harder for Martin, seeing his mother in the cast-off clothes of a charitable woman. ‘Och, I shouldn’t mock. It’s good of people to open their hearts like this.’