‘We might yet. But not tonight. I still must think. We shall go to the Abbey tomorrow, if I am right. News of Cardinal might come in, and we shall know how he fares in the king’s favour. He might convince him to resist the Antichrist once more.’
‘Do you really believe that? That King Henry is the Antichrist?’
‘You doubt it?’
‘Don’t avoid the question.’
‘I know only that the man is a glutton and worse. The office of his Holiness in Rome is ancient and full of God’s mysteries. The King of England wants such an office for himself. It is madness as well as sacrilege for a temporal sovereign to claim he has God’s whispered advice over men’s souls. He was born to be a king over their secular governance. His usurpation of papal rule should no more be heeded than a raving lunatic claiming God speaks through him, and who would believe that? No, my fear is that in time King Henry’s fantastic claims will be taken seriously. He pulled down the Roman Church because of his greed. Because of his lust for money, his lust for infamy, for the Boleyn woman. And now he lusts after Scotland.’
‘And yet he won the day and Solway Moss, and his forces didn’t march up to conquer us.’
‘Not yet. But King Henry is a man of evil appetites. Our king is not a glutton. He does not seek to add England to his crown as Henry does to Scotland. You know, the old Henry, the present king’s father, said that if Scotland should ever be joined to England, even under a Scots king, it would not be the addition of England to Scotland, but rather Scotland to England, as the greater part of the whole island. Such is the feeling in England. If the line of Henry and his wee bairn fails, and our queen is delivered of a good Christian prince, he might one day inherit England – yet England will then inherit Scotland. And should a girl be born and claimed as bride by an English sovereign ... well, in Scotland your ladies marry to join kin to kin, clan to clan, family to family. In England the bold man absorbs the lady, and what was hers becomes his. And so the seventh Henry would again be right. Any marriage between England and Scotland would be the pouring of a smaller vessel into a larger.’
‘Henry VII ... that old pinchpenny.’ Danforth couldn’t help but smile. The old King Henry was long in his grave, but the reputation he had earned in life endured. It had become common knowledge even to those who had never breathed the same air as him.
‘That was before my time, but the feeling remains.’ Martin’s head rocked back and forth slowly.
‘It’s a strange thing, an Englishman in Scotland and so desirous of Scotland’s freedom from England’s rule.’ Danforth had been expecting such a question.
‘You might well wonder why I am so wedded to Scotland, as an Englishman – I agree we are a rare breed. It is because this kingdom retains my religion and my beliefs, and my former kingdom revels in their destruction. I would not have Scotland added to England, lest that destruction be wrought here. Nor would I have those inclined to English policy and England’s wicked heresies sway our king and government. Such men are no less than traitors to Scotland.’ He caught the question that briefly made a crease of Martin’s brow, though the man had tried quickly to smooth it away. ‘No Catholic, sir, can be a traitor to England simply for refusing to be subject to a tyrant.’
‘Yet there are men of the faith in England still. The Duke of Norfolk’s said to favour the true religion. Wee Catherine Howard was a daughter of the Catholic faith too, or so they say.’
‘Bah! So strong that the one serves King Henry and the other shared his bed. A traitor to the faith and an English Messalina. No true Catholic man or woman could serve an excommunicate – worse than an excommunicate: an avowed enemy of his Holiness’ authority.’
‘So you do not think the stories about Henry leaning back towards the true faith are to be believed?’
‘He is old and ill. He might fancy he can save his damned soul by appearing contrite, the foolish creature. No, England is lost as long as Henry swallows up the Pope’s rights. It is right that the Cardinal stands firm, that he leans towards the French, as a race true in the faith and loyal to Rome. Though I confess,’ he added, ‘that your breed inspires in me no great love.’
‘Mais vous avez tort, mon ami. My father’s land was the very seat and cradle of love. Not even in Scotland do poets speak so fair. Think on Queen Marie’s son: a prince of the realm half Scottish and half French. Could any princeling be more blessed?’
‘Away you go,’ smiled Danforth. ‘But I am bone-weary and bedward. I must bid you goodnight, sir. Tomorrow, I worry, shall be a terrible day.’
‘You’ve not forgotten some regular activity, nor taken an odd number of steps to make it so, surely?’
‘No. Goodnight, Mr Martin.’ Already Danforth was tucking himself under his cloak. Martin went to the door. Before he could go through it, Danforth muttered from the mattress, ‘I am glad your young friend lives, for all she was a slattern who has seduced a holy man and turned him into naught but an apostate.’
Sleep came with difficulty. Danforth’s mind turned with possibilities. He felt that the truth was before him, and yet he shied away from it. Something within him, however, told him that it must be confronted, and that only by facing it could he finally come to enjoy peace. Everything that had happened since coming to Paisley, he felt, had been a trial, set for him by God. He was right to doubt that a pilgrimage could be as little as a few short hours’ ride across a neat, unfaltering road. It required pain; it required some epiphany. He was being tested, his will and strength put on trial. He must let the ghosts of the unknown dead girl and the man who was not her father, and unlikely to be her killer, have their justice. Only then might he be freed of his own terrors and his own sin.
The Book of Hours lay open by his bed, turned to Matthew:
Ye have heard that it was said by them of old time, Thou shalt not kill; and whosoever shall kill shall be in danger of judgment ... But I tell you that anyone who is angry with a brother or sister will be subject to judgment.
He slept, dreaming fitfully.
The next day he would confront the killer.
In the morning, he rose early and got down on his knees to pray. He begged God to give him strength. He prayed for a good outcome, for an end to the madness that had infected this community. If he was to be God’s instrument in the safe delivery of the burgh from a great and terrible evil, he would require support.
He woke Martin with a knock, and the pair attended Mass. He took Communion gratefully. It gave him strength. Afterwards, Martin began marching purposefully down the steep wynd, along Moss Street and, as they reached the market cross, he turned left towards the Bridge Port. Danforth stopped him with a hand on the shoulder. Martin turned to him, confusion on a face shining with wetness from the returning sparkle of ticklish, powdery rain.
‘You said, sir, that we are to put an end to this. Has your mind changed course? Don’t you wish to speak with the Prior?’ His breath rose in the air like a dragon’s. It was strange to see the mist of breath fight against the mist of rain.
‘Not yet,’ said Danforth. ‘We might speak with him this afternoon, after his dinner. Besides, we must get our things from the inn.’ Privately he doubted if they would have time to confront the Prior that day.
Muttering, Martin joined him and they walked back up the High Street. As they passed through the lower part, where the tenements lay like a set of carelessly made false teeth, the sound of a cheap bladder pipe and tabor burst out across the street. ‘Ugh,’ said Danforth. ‘Does this town do aught but play music and enjoy song?’
‘Pray do not tell me you dislike music and entertainment, sir.’
‘I do not, Martin. I ...’ Danforth’s voice lowered, turning a little petulant. ‘They have their place.’
They passed into the upper High Street. Mistress Clacher was standing in front of her house on the Prior’s Croft side, her head bowed in conversation with Mistress Darroch. Friends again. She moved to wave, her mouth opening. When she caught sight of Martin, her face
shrivelled into a hideous frown and she turned her head ostentatiously from them. That was one more thing, thought Danforth, to thank Martin for. It seemed lately that he was becoming increasingly thankful for the man. Though he would not call him a friend, he had accepted him as an ally, as one who could be counted on. It was a pleasant feeling. From it, friendship might grow. And since coming into Scotland, he had made no friends, only colleagues, and the Cardinal who, though a kind, generous man, was a master to be deferred to. He thought of Cicero, or friendship, as he watched Martin swagger alongside him.
Mistress Caldwell was humming to herself as she tidied the public room. It seemed that finally achieving widowhood – that strange position in which a woman might live an independent life – had brought a new kind of frivolity to her. She had arranged the chairs around the fire, and was even in the process of bringing through her old washbowl, that her guests might have a public laver. Water slopped over the edges and fell to the floor. Martin smiled, the smile faltering when he looked at Danforth. ‘You have turned daughter of Danaus, I see’ he said, his face impassive.
‘Good morrow, gentlemen. Mr Danforth, have you written your letter? I’d like matters to move apace.’ Her tone, though sunny, was businesslike.
‘Perhaps later, mistress.’
‘I don’t mean to push you,’ she frowned, ‘but you did say that this mornin’–‘
‘Where is your husband buried?’ Martin was taken aback by the harsh, stentorious tone of Danforth’s voice.
‘Sir? My husband yet lies in his bed. He shall be buried anon.’
‘No, madam. This twisted jest is over. That poor wretch, that pitiful, nameless creature that you induced into your bed is not your husband.’
20
‘You ... sir, the man’s run mad,’ said Mistress Caldwell, turning pleading, fearful eyes on Martin. The peat fire in the room issued thin black smoke. It curled up around her. Martin turned to Danforth, trusting.
‘I tell you, mistress, I will have no more. That man is no more your husband than I am a bunch of radishes.’ Danforth felt suddenly old, and very tired. He watched Mistress Caldwell closely, reading her reaction. In that he might find the proof of his theory. For several beats she froze, not even breathing. Only the pupils of her eyes seemed to change in size, contracting and expanding in the guttering light.
‘But how can you think this,’ she said at length. ‘Sir, you’ve no’ met my husband. He’s altered in his appearance, but that’s only the ravage of years spent in sin.’ There was something more than demurral in her voice. There was a reluctant, angry curiosity that feigned indignation could not mask.
‘If you prefer, Mistress Caldwell, I shall have every burgess and their wife in this burgh pass through this house and gaze upon him. The corpse shall be shaved and they might avow themselves that this man is a stranger to them, for all his height and clothing.’ He sighed, shaking his head. ‘It were better that you confess freely. Your soul might feel the benefit hereafter.’
She crumpled at the word ‘soul’, fresh tears – real tears – beginning to run down her face. Then hatred contorted her features. Danforth shrunk back under it. It was never pleasant to feel hated.‘How, how can you know this? How can you?’
‘You overplayed your hand. If you will forgive me, it was a womanish lapse. Is it possible that any man could return in the state of that fellow you call Kennedy, in the suit of clothes he departed, his body ruined and yet his doublet untouched and fresh? I would say clean, mistress, but for the stains around the collar, stains which corresponded remarkably with those from blows to the face and head. You did a poor job of removing the blood. I shall ask once more. Where is your husband buried?’
‘I say nothin’, I cannot plead,’ she said in confused desperation. ‘I have nothin’ to say to you. Liar! Mr Martin!’ Her posture had changed to that of the aggrieved housewife, one hand on her hip, the other balled in a fist. Once again, Martin looked away from her.
Danforth sighed. ‘As you wish, Mistress Caldwell. We might begin by digging up your garden. Or by digging the floor of this house. Unless you threw him in the river and it kept him – but a deep dig shall tell us if that be the case.’ Silence fell between them, the only sound her little moans. Eventually she rallied. Her strong hands began to pluck at her white dress.
‘But ... but ... how?’
‘I am no fool, woman. I thought the clothes curious, but I might not have given them a second thought, had we not learned that the Brody lass lives. And who should be missing but another young woman, and the harlot of your husband at that. The husband who mysteriously reappears, much altered in appearance from his long absence. And right before the eyes of a man whom it suited your turn to witness die. Me, to whom you turned friend. Now where is the true Kennedy?’
‘Christ Jesus! Friend! I’m no friend to any man. I ... you ... You’ll find Kennedy in the garden, Christ damn him. His vile body is doin’ me greater service feeding the chickens than ever the fool did in his miserable life.’
‘Then that man,’ began Martin.
‘A vagrant,’ finished Danforth. ‘We have seen the poor things, sir: they congregate around the walls of the Abbey; they clog the road leading to the town. I daresay Mistress Caldwell lured the poor fellow with money before fashioning him as her husband, in the clothes she took from her husband’s body. It was a weary mockery. A sham.’
‘I bid him come here after dark. Took a while to make him understand. He came on the promise of food, no’ money,’ said Mistress Caldwell, as though appalled at the suggestion. ‘Those clothes were too fine for Tam. But the blood never would come clean out of them. He was always a bloody nuisance. It was easy enough to put them on that filthy fellow before rousin’ you men from your idleness.’
‘A nuisance? Is this why you killed him?’ asked Martin.
‘No,’ she protested. ‘I didn’t think of killin’ him. I planned nothin’. The brute said he would leave me. Take our money, leave me nothin’. He laughed in my face when I wept, when I stormed, when I begged for him to treat me as a wife should be treated. He was packin’ his things to leave wi’ that ... that hoor Blackwood. Black is right, and foul! Still he was laughin’ at me as he turned and bent to fill his pack wi’ our – wi’ my things. And so ... And so I split his head wi’ a hatchet. I don’t know what came over me. I was mad wi’ fury. It was her fault.’
‘And so you killed her,’ said Danforth. ‘We know that, mistress. We know that Kate Brody lives. She was espied in Ayr. Soon none will believe that her body lies in the churchyard of St Nicholas, hastily buried and forgotten as you’d hoped. But why now? That is what kept me awake last night, what has turned in my mind since we learned Kate Brody still lived. How did it come to pass that this Blackwood creature was in Paisley, and you eager to kill her?’
Mistress Caldwell wiped her eyes and then lowered herself into a seat by the fire. Her face had drained of emotion. She looked, to Danforth, to be carved of grey stone. Her colourless pallor glinted in the firelight. She might almost have been the corpse. ‘For two years that monstrous bitch has tormented me. She came upon this house the night I ... the night Kennedy died. She saw the blood, even as I tried to clean it from the floor, from the walls. I even had to tear down my good panellin’ and burn it, so much blood poured from his empty head. She had come for her lover. But did she weep for him, findin’ him slain? No, she didn’t. Instead she demanded money. All the money Kennedy had planned for them to run away wi’. I gave her it. It bought her silence.
‘For a space at least. She took off wi’ our horses and our money – what by rights was mine. And still she came back. She took every horse. Every few months she would return, demandin’ still more, more, more to keep her in her fashion. By night she would come, like the harlot she was.’
‘The quean on the horse,’ murmured Danforth. ‘The jade that Mistress Darroch spoke of, that haunted the burgh by night. And so it was no strumpet come hence to feed the lust of the monks.’ To hi
s surprise he found a measure of comfort in that – but only a measure.
‘That fits her: a jade and a strumpet. I told her to keep to the woods, by the Castle Head and Laigh Common. I told her to wear a disguise. Sometimes she came dressed as a man, the unnatural creature – it were better, she said, to ride safely. Ha! Thinkin’ on her safety. Stupid sow.’
‘You’re a fine one to accuse any woman of being unnatural,’ said Martin, ‘when your own crimes are made doubly monstrous by your sex. A man in his cups might be known to commit such atrocities, but not even the most evil-minded writer of scandalous pamphlets could imagine a woman doing what you’ve done. And to a young woman.’
‘Enough, Martin. Pray continue, mistress.’ She shot Martin a spiteful look before she did. He reflected it.
‘She came after news of the Brody girl’s flight became known. They were the same height. They had the same colourin’. Men – weak men – lusted after that Brody girl as they once lusted after Agnes Blackwood. I knew that it might be the only chance to be rid of her and her greed. And so when she sent biddin’ me to meet her in the Moss, I brought her money. As the greedy creature counted it, I struck her too. I gave the sow,’ she said with relish, ‘no time even to squeal.’
‘And from what Danforth tells me, you enjoyed the doing of it,’ said Martin in anger. He could not understand Danforth’s detachment. It was clear to him that the woman was a monster, and a monster who had beguiled them into staying under her rotten roof.
‘I saw,’ Danforth confirmed, ‘the fury spent on the dead woman’s face. To disguise her identity yes, but done with pure malice too. Enjoyment.’
‘More than you can imagine, sir. And there should have been the end of it. It would have been, had you fellows no’ come to the burgh and stuck your noses in. But I thought havin’ you close might be useful. To protect me. As long as you were no’ engaged in the affair, and I just your hostess, foolish woman, left all alone. Well, it was true enough.’
Fire & Faith Page 20