Scougall noticed the handle of his stick was ornately carved into the head of a creature which resembled an elephant.
Black dropped his voice to a whisper. ‘Thirlsmuir believes he has precedence as the son of an earl, while Grimston thinks he should lead because of his long dedication to the cause. Lammington claims he’s the natural leader. I, however, have the ear of Carstares who is intimate with Bentinck. It is well known that Bentinck is William’s favourite courtier. So the chain leads from me to the Prince. A golden thread, indeed! I’m a man of special influence. You’d do well to follow me in the association.’ He gave them an inscrutable wink, turned on his heels, which were high, and with a sly smile bade them goodnight.
Scougall watched him walk up the High Street, his cane tapping on the cobbles, his long wig swaying from side to side against the back of his coat. There was something of the dandy about him. He would not have looked out of place in the streets of London or Paris.
‘He wants our support,’ said Morrison. ‘Two votes could be valuable. Our company can benefit. Come, let’s observe the spectacle,’ he beckoned enthusiastically, his florid features beaming. Scougall thought that he would have been less keen to have dealings with him if it was not for the fair features of his sister.
‘This might be fun!’ Morrison shouted above the din, but Scougall was thinking about the execution of a witch he had witnessed on the Castle Hill the year before, the awful sight of the burning body blazing against the darkness, the reek of roasting flesh on the cold wind. He reflected on the similarities with the present rabble and had an overwhelming desire to be off to his lodgings. But to appear a fool before Morrison was out of the question.
‘I suppose I could postpone my return for half an hour.’
Bonfires, which were burning every fifty yards, transformed the High Street into a blazing tunnel. The mob was turning its attention to the tenements on each side which rose as high as seven or eight storeys. Word was spread that candles were to be lit in windows as a sign of support for the Presbyterian cause. Stones were hurled at black rectangles which were not illuminated, where Papist supporters were suspected of living. Scougall wondered what happened to folk who were away from town. Having their windows smashed was hardly just. There were cheers as each was successfully hit, the young urchins enjoying the licence to test the accuracy of their arms. Morrison picked up a stone and hurled it, adding a profanity about the Pope. He was delighted by the whole business, as if it were fine entertainment.
What remained of the Whore was dumped in the Lawn Market. A long orange banner was unfurled and proudly held aloft, its colour articulating support for the Dutch Prince as they called on William to deliver the nation from a Papist King. More drummers joined the throng, intensifying the rhythmic cries. A woman with a basket handed out oranges which were grabbed greedily. Scougall took one of the rare fruits. It was a clever way of buying support for the cause. He wondered who was funding the distribution of such a rare commodity.
Morrison nudged him. ‘Papists are in the Canongate.’
The rabble marched defiantly down the High Street past St Giles Kirk and the Tolbooth where Stuart was incarcerated. They would show no mercy if they got hold of him. Scougall nervously cast an eye at his office to the left, praying his windows would not be smashed. The last thing he wanted was a glazier’s bill. He offered a short prayer to God to preserve his panes.
They surged through the Nether Bow Port into the Canongate, officially a separate jurisdiction from Edinburgh, although cheek by jowl with it. In this part of the city the houses were not as tall as the soaring tenements towards the castle. Nobles and well-to-do merchants lived in three- and four-storey dwellings with fine gardens to the rear. Halfway down, near the Canongate Tolbooth, they surrounded the entrance of a dark wynd.
There was so much screaming it was difficult to know what was happening. At last, after a few minutes of mayhem, Craig and Johnston emerged from the vennel. ‘Two got away! But we have one!’ Craig shouted.
A figure was dragged out of the darkness dressed in the attire of a priest.
‘Found in the heart of reformed Scotland. The Papists plan the destruction of the city!’ someone screamed.
The priest spoke in an English voice: ‘I plan nothing… I only serve God and Lord Melfort.’
The mention of the despised aristocrat, a recent convert to the Church of Rome, incensed the mob’s fury. The man’s hands were bound behind his back as violent screams enveloped him.
‘Burn him alive! String him up! Rip his fuckin bowels oot! Take his black heart!’
The priest was on his knees on the cobbles, begging for his life as two large figures appeared beside him. Scougall recognised the guards from the association. He was lifted by his oxters and taken up the High Street screaming. Scougall recalled the slaughter of Protestants in Ireland and France, how the Huguenots suffered under the persecutions of King Louis. But he was troubled by such a blatant example of summary justice. The priest was possibly dragged off to be killed in a dark corner. He believed in the law set down by God and proclaimed in His Book, in particular, Thou Shalt Not Kill. The rabble was taking His precepts into its own hands. He could hear MacKenzie’s voice in his head – We don’t know anything about this man. He should be defended in court of law. He must be allowed to make a defence. The mob should not rule above the law.
‘What will happen to him?’ he asked Morrison.
‘I wouldn’t like to be in his shoes, Davie. God knows what awaits the poor fellow. We’ll hear tomorrow when the clamour abates. The King’s foolish to allow priests succour in Scotland. Does he not understand how deeply the people despise them?’
Scougall recalled how Morrison’s family had suffered, spending years in exile for opposing the Stewart Kings.
‘We should retire for the night. Perhaps you might take victuals in our lodgings tomorrow? Agnes will prepare something. We can discuss business rather than politics. We mustn’t lose sight of the fact this is just a means to an end. The men we met tonight have money. We must persuade them to invest it in our company.’
Scougall was uplifted by the prospect of seeing her again. The mob’s anger, so intense a few minutes before, had dissipated, the bonfires already extinguished by buckets of water set beside them before they were lit. Everything had been planned to perfection. All was quiet on the High Street as he walked back to his lodgings.
13
Proclamation of a Papist
IT WAS A FINE DAY, although a cold breeze lent sharpness to the sun’s warmth. Scougall felt ill at ease after attending the club the previous night. He had not summoned up the courage to tell MacKenzie about it. He felt it was not the right time yet.
As they stood at the Mercat Cross on the High Street among another throng, a boy darting through the crowd handing out sheets of paper caught his attention. He looked on his face as he took one, recognising the child who had delivered the note at the association. In the light of day he saw the deformity was only a harelip which had been exaggerated in the half-light outside the door. He was small, dirty and barefoot; a poor miserable bairn.
MacKenzie was perturbed by the latest news. It was said the Prince of Orange had landed at Torbay in the south of England with a fleet of seven hundred ships. He had passed through the Channel with a favourable wind, unmolested by the King’s navy. The court in London was in consternation but there was universal rejoicing among the people. Some said that William was already at Exeter.
MacKenzie looked down at the title – The Last Proclamation of a Wronged Man of the True Faith of Scotland by Alexander Stuart. The fool had not given up his attempt to have his last words published. He shook his head and cursed in Gaelic.
I Alexander Stuart, son of David Stuart of Mordington, make the following proclamation before entering everlasting glory.
‘An abused creature rebelling against his father, country and religion; only through betrayal could he achieve revenge,’ sighed MacKenzie.
S
cougall read it quickly, appalled by the views espoused, in particular Stuart’s call for the people of Scotland to reject the reformed faith and convert to the Catholic religion. He shuddered at the growing power of Antichrist within the realm. Only a few hundred yards from where they stood, the Mass was openly proclaimed, although it was contrary to the laws of Scotland. Children were educated by Jesuits, servants of the Devil. King James had turned against his own people, favouring those who converted to the faith of Satan.
‘Na earb thu fhèin ri gràisg. Don’t trust the mob, Davie. This poor creature’s death should not be entertainment for the masses. God help us! The rabble believes in nothing but annihilation.’
Scougall nodded vacantly, dreading MacKenzie’s anger when he revealed where he had been the night before.
‘I’ve told Elizabeth she’s not to come to town until the situation is calmer. You should write to your parents. Tell them to stay in Musselburgh until the frenzy abates. I’ve heard all kinds of rumours from London.’
‘My mother never comes to town, sir. She’s rarely left Musselburgh in her life, although my father travels here each week. I’ll write to him, counselling caution, although he’ll have to conduct his business. People will want fresh herring whatever the political climate.’
Hundreds were packed into the High Street beside St Giles Kirk, all eyes fixed on the low door of the Tolbooth. After the Tron Kirk bell sounded eleven times, a figure emerged. The public hangman was followed by a stretcher carried by two men.
It was only fifty yards to the Cross, the centre of the burgh, the focal point of Scotland, where a gibbet was erected. Soldiers held back the crowd, making a pathway for the hangman. Scougall would have preferred to have been further back but MacKenzie was to act as a witness for Stuart’s mother. He felt his pulse racing. His eyes darted round the crowd nervously, looking for familiar faces. Stirling was directly across the street chatting to Rosehaugh beside other lawyers and councillors. Then his heart stopped – he spotted Lammington and Grimston.
Stuart was lifted off the stretcher by the hangman. Skeletally thin, he was dressed in a white Holland shirt and dark breeches, his hair hanging lankly on his shoulders. In agonising pain from his leg wound, he was forced to kneel before a wooden block a few yards in front of them. The volume of abuse from the crowd increased another notch, the screams piercing, the anger unrestrained.
Stuart’s right arm was held down on the block. Scougall was so close he could delineate the pale blue veins. He was not prepared for what happened next. Without ceremony the hangman swung his axe. It had come from nowhere, but he must have been carrying it all along. There was a whistle as the weapon swiped the air, followed by a dull thud as it embedded in the block. Stuart’s hand dropped to the ground like a glove falling from a table. Blood spurted from the wound. His screams accompanied the roars of the crowd as he stared at the stump, holding it up to his face, observing the protruding white bone in horror.
Scougall looked down at his shoes as nausea swept through him. He feared he was going to be sick. The hand lay discarded like a leather purse a few yards away. It was the hand of the assassin of Kingsfield. Murder begot murder.
The traitor was hoisted onto the gibbet, his wrist-stump still dripping blood and his screams relentless. Another man moved forward, an official of some kind, carrying a scarlet cushion. On it rested a pistol. The hangman picked up the weapon and placed it round Stuart’s neck. It was the gun he had used to kill Kingsfield.
Within seconds Stuart was swaying in his death throes. The abuse seemed to know no end. The curses were unrelenting. The hatred was as bitter as bile as the body jerked through its final agonies. Scougall could not look. But the image was implanted on his memory for ever.
At last Stuart hung at rest, his head at a slight angle, blood still dripping from the stump onto the cobbles. Scougall tried to stop himself, summoning up all his powers of self-restraint, but there was nothing he could do. He bent over and vomited. All he could think of was what Lammington or Grimston might think if they saw him boaking beside MacKenzie.
‘It’s over, Davie.’
Scougall stared at the hand in the dirt, observing the fingers that had pulled the trigger on the day Agnes returned to his life. Then he was conscious of someone towering over him. Was he to be punished for vomiting? But the executioner had seen it all before. Perhaps there was nothing on earth that could shock him. He picked up the hand. ‘They want it nailed tae the West Port as a warning tae others,’ he muttered under his breath.
14
A Note from Rosehaugh
IN AN INTENSELY bad mood, Archibald Stirling made his way up the High Street. Rosehaugh’s short note had come as a shock, interrupting his work. He was adding the finishing touches to a chapter of his history which considered the thorny issue of the Rebellion in the 1630s. There were surely parallels with the present situation. The Whigs were grown in confidence since the Indulgences. Edinburgh was full of schemers multiplying by the day, fanatics plotting armed insurrection.
As he made his way down the steep slope of the Bow, he had to admit that the King’s policies were causing the government problems. Even he, a loyal supporter of the House of Stewart, had grave misgivings about them. But the King ruled by God’s authority. It was the fault of foolish advisers like Perth and his brother Melfort who sought to feather their own nests.
The last thing he needed was a murder, especially after the killing of Kingsfield. He gained no pleasure from the investigation of such cases. Rosehaugh’s note was curt. A body had been found in a storeroom in Niven’s Wynd off the Cowgate. I advise you to visit the scene at once. We do not want any more trouble in the city at this time.
He turned left into the Cowgate, passing St Magdalene’s Chapel on the right which the Presbyterians had recently purchased from the council. Allowing them to gather legally in the middle of the city was another piece of folly. It let them gain in strength each day that passed, like a tumour on the nation. He heard the singing of a psalm inside unaccompanied by musical instrument. They were such grim creatures. He thought of Davie Scougall, MacKenzie’s writer. Perhaps they were not all bad. Scougall was a cautious Presbyterian, not an earnest one. It was the earnest ones that were trouble. Earnestness in most things spelt trouble.
Stirling noticed the town guards holding back a few late revellers around the entrance of a vennel about fifty yards down the Cowgate on the left. This was not the kind of attention they wanted. News of a murder spread like wildfire in this congested city. He nodded at Meikle, one of his men, and entered the dark passageway between the tenements. About thirty yards down, two guards stood beside a door with torches.
A meaty aroma struck him as soon as he entered, so powerful it almost made him retch. He raised the torch to reveal a cavernous chamber, clearly used as a kitchen at some stage in its history, now a storeroom for merchandise.
Walking slowly down a gap between the shelves, he held his handkerchief over his nose. At the far end of the room was an indistinct shape. As he came closer, he saw it was a large stone fireplace. He halted, standing about five yards away. The smell was overpowering. He knew it was burnt human flesh. Something was suspended from the spit. The realisation that this was a body had stopped him in his tracks.
‘When was it found?’ he snapped at Meikle who was a couple of paces behind him. Smoke was still rising from the body.
‘At nine o’clock by the merchant who rents the chamber – Mr Peter Guillemot. The flames were already oot when he found him.’
Stirling walked towards the fireplace. Most of the body was burned black, resembling a carcass of beef. The thought made him gag. Because of the victim’s height, the head and feet were untouched by the flames. He observed a fine pair of leather shoes, the buckles shining in the torchlight. This was clearly a gentleman. A man of substance. A wave of despair washed through him. The death might have wider political repercussions. He raised the torch to reveal the face and was struck by a bolt of recognitio
n. It was Francis Scott of Thirlsmuir, the younger son of the Earl of Pittendean. The manner of his death was obscene. It was bad enough to kill, but to inflict such outrage on a body. Thirlsmuir was perhaps burned alive, although his face looked peaceful. Perhaps he was killed first, or made unconscious. Rumours circulated that his father tended towards Presbytery rather than bishop. The murder of his son would cause uproar in the city.
‘Summon Lawtie,’ he barked at Meikle. He wanted medical opinion quickly.
Stirling had an overwhelming desire to quit the chamber at once, to be away from the odour. He recalled the execution of witches and warlocks and other poor souls, strangled then burned to nothing. But revulsion gave way to purpose. He would soon face Rosehaugh’s questions. He must make a rudimentary examination, retain as much as he could for his report.
He went back to the body. There was an expensive periwig and fine necktie. The suit was burned through. He decided to let Lawtie deal with the rest; that was what the grasping little doctor was paid for. He turned to take in the room, a rectangle, possibly twenty yards by ten, full of shelving and crammed with boxes. He would have one of his men go through them later. There was another door on the east wall. It creaked open. But when he held up his torch he saw the exit was bricked off.
The only piece of furniture was a small table to the left of the fireplace. Something rested on it – a sheet of paper. It was a letter. Lifting it carefully, he was surprised to see it addressed to Rosehaugh.
Stirling was now in darkly bad mood, knowing he would have to return to the office despite the late hour. He thought of his hero, Montrose, a man who had witnessed carnage on many occasions at the battles of Auldearn, Inverlochy and Philiphaugh. But this was not a time of war. It was an autumn evening in the city of Edinburgh.
Pilgrim of Slaughter Page 6