As he made to pull out his blade and burst into the tavern, an iron grip seized his arm. Turning, he looked in to Danforth’s stony face.
‘What are you doing,’ hissed Martin, shaking him off. ‘I have him, I can feel it. He’ll not breath longer than tonight.’
‘And you would have your mother know that her son has turned killer, and is taken up for a hanging?’
‘You heard that old fool – the law has no concern for this place. It is likely there are deaths unreported here each week. These are not people of quality. You’ve spoiled my plans, Danforth, I was … ready.’
Danforth looked at Martin, light playing on his face from the tavern’s windows. He suddenly realised how young he was, and thus how doubly stupid was his desire to avenge his sister. To throw away his future for vengeance. ‘Let us go back to your mother. We can make proper enquiries as to this McKenzie’s actions tomorrow, if it pleases you.’
Martin, deflating, let the dirk slide back into its snug scabbard with a muted ting. ‘Simon, I won’t kill him. Not tonight. But in truth I want to go in here place and look upon him. I intend to do so. You can come with me, if you will, and have the proof of my pledge.’
Sighing, Danforth released his grip, letting Martin massage his arm. ‘Where’s Woebegone? I didn’t hear you follow me.’
‘I left him on the Hiegait. I would not leave a pair of boots unattended in this place.’
Together they entered the tavern and found themselves in a large, single room, open to the rafters. Opposite them lay a bar. There was no furniture, but some wooden crates dotted here and there, to do duty as either chairs or tables depending on necessity. There were no longer any customers; the loud, drunk men who had careened past Martin had been the last.
‘What news, fellows. Do you come from the town or without?’ The tapster had appeared behind the bar, materialising from the private room which lay beyond it. He was a jovial-looking middle-aged fellow, who would have appeared more like an overgrown baby than a man, were it not for the thatch of brown beard and moustaches.
‘Good evening, sir.’
‘What “sir” – call me Sharp.’
‘I am Mr Martin, and this is Mr Danforth. We are gentleman of the Lord Cardinal.’
‘Is that so? How fares his Grace?’
‘Well, sir. He will not be cast down.’
‘Good. He’s a fine yin, one who stands firm against England. I say shame on the Hamilton boy, counterfeiting a king and arresting so great a fellow.’ Danforth felt suddenly that it might be unwise to speak. Instead he nodded, in approximation of the type of man he assumed frequented low taverns. Martin eyed him with amusement. ‘But hold on. Martin … Martin … you’re not kin to the old Frenchman Martin, as was late of the burgh?’
‘My father.’
‘Och, well that’s who you put me in mind of, sir. Your father was an ale-taster, and he never found Sharp’s tavern cheating.’ He smiled at the recollection. ‘He’s missed, son – he wasn’t like some of the fellows that think themselves gods when they’re made burgesses of a royal burgh. He knew what was what.’
‘That’s kind of you to say. Tell me, have you any business with a man called John McKenzie?’
‘The old drunk? Calls himself a doctor?’
‘The same.’
‘Aye, he drinks in here. I don’t let him stay long, mind, because he turns nasty on it. You know how men are, sir. For one man, the ale turns him into the world’s best friend. For another, it turns him into its enemy. McKenzie’s the last. In fact, your family’s is amongst the names he blames for his ill luck.’
‘Where does he live, do you know?’
‘I can’t say I do, young Martin. He falls out of this place and like as not clambers up to the house next door. It’s … well, it’s a place a fellow might put his head on a softer pillow, if you know what I mean.’ He tipped them a wink. ‘Shall I tell McKenzie when he appears that you seek business with him? Though he lost his shop, he often lets it be known that he’ll cure a headache or tell a sick man what he needs to stop up his bowels. If it’s aid you seek, though, I can’t truly recommend him. Nor do I reckon he’d want to help you.’
‘I would rather,’ said Martin, ‘that you said nothing to McKenzie of my name or my presence.’
‘I understand, sir.’ Sharp tapped the side of his nose. ‘I’m well used to confidences.’
‘Aye,’ said Martin, looking around the tavern. ‘I must say, Mr Sharp, you’re too fine a fellow to be keeping your shop in a place like this.’
‘Aye, sir, and that’s the truth.’ A faraway look came into Sharp’s eyes. ‘See when I first came to this place – before your father came to town – the wynd was a fine street. It’s been allowed to go to hell. But,’ he brightened, ‘it’s an odd thing. I’ve been adopted by the rough trade. Feed a community of rogues ale, tend their haunt for them, and they’ll watch your back. I’m probably safer as their tapster than if I set my face against them, as the Hiegait does.’
‘Honour amongst thieves,’ said Danforth under his breath.
‘What’s that, sir?’
‘Nothing. We heard there have been murders here. Some rumours of a man risen up and slaying other criminals.’
‘Oh aye?’
‘Do you know anything about them?’
‘I know some regulars were done in. Nothing else.’ Danforth didn’t press. The man would only seal his lips. People didn’t talk, especially not if they lived amongst the rabble. Besides, it was none of his concern. He turned to Martin.
‘Well, we can hardly confront this McKenzie in a stew.’
‘No, I suppose for tonight–’
Before they could speak further, the door of the tavern flew open and a squat man strode in. Wearing strange clothes – a wide-necked brown doublet with full skirt, of the previous generation, and a tatty, calf-length over-gown – he drew the back of a hairy hand theatrically across his forehead.
‘Good fellow,’ he announced, ‘ale for all, and pray give me your ears.’ He reached under his coat, producing a large purse, and scattered money across the bar, which an eager Sharp grasped for. ‘Gentlemen, you both appear to of some distinction. I note you have a fine horse stabled without. Will you sup with me?’ Spotting the unmoved expression shared by Martin and Danforth, he went on. ‘My name is Sir Andrew Boyle, lately of service to the Earl of Argyll. I have been set upon by knaves upon the highway, my servants scattered, and lack the means to return to my great master. I crave only some little money and a horse, which shall be repaid forthwith, with an ample gratuity accrued from my own lands.’
‘Do you think,’ said Danforth, ‘that we floated here up the Forth?’
‘But sir,’ said Boyle, ‘I have proofs. I am who I say.’ Danforth made to leave, Martin following, but Boyle blocked their passage, his cragged face turned savage. Though he might only have been Danforth’s age, he was haggard, and, closer to, deep scars were discernible on his head. ‘I should advise you, sirs, as I am a great man I can be a great enemy.’
‘And as true gentlemen of a great man, I advise you your punishment might yet be the greater.’
‘You … English whoreson.’ Danforth barged passed him, scuffing the ragged coat. Martin drew a look up and down the man before following him out of the tavern and fetching his horse. He gave nothing to the truculent stable boy, Danforth noticed.
They walked back to the Hiegait, Martin leading Coureur. ‘That creature was a poor player,’ said Martin mildly. ‘I doubt he learned his part in any liturgical play. I hope you didn’t … I mean I hope he didn’t offend you.’
‘I am of a Stoic nature.’
‘And that’s good?’
‘It can be. It was a poor performance. Such cozeners are rife in poor places, and they must be handled firmly, else they are apt to turn hard themselves. It was not even an original coney-catching, the hell-blasted fool. The sight of a horse,’ he added, with an admonishing look, ‘is a siren lure to them.’
> ‘Says the fellow who left his horse untended.’
‘In a safe part of a royal burgh.’
Back by the market cross, lit now only by a thin circlet of moonlight, Danforth again turned to Martin. ‘And so finally we may return to the house?’
‘I should like a drink first.’ Danforth threw his head back in dismay, and then realised that his friend was shaking. It was not from the cold, but from nerves and tension unreleased. ‘There is an inn and tavern here. It’s a respectable place, not like the other,’ he added, catching Danforth’s exasperation. ‘Mr McTavish, I think the name is. Come.’
The inn stood opposite the Tolbooth. They didn’t bother to trouble the stables, seeing no ostler and hearing that beasts were already present from the noises drifting from behind the place. The Hiegait was safe enough. Inside they found tables – proper, solid wooden boards – and stools. A man was cleaning a smooth, sanded bar as he hummed tunelessly. He looked up at the sound of the open door, his bald head gleaming in the candlelight. A sour-faced woman in a neat mob cap stood at the far right, arms folded. As they crossed to the bar, fresh rushes stuck to their muddy, wet boots. Danforth hissed in irritation. He hated the damned stuff, silly perfumed frippery that it was. It was impossible to walk in a room without the straw sticking to anything that touched it.
‘Can I help you, gentlemen,’ the proprietor asked, his voice fussy and light, his eyes drifting with distaste to Danforth’s rush-decorated boots. ‘It’s late.’
‘We would have a drink,’ said Martin, ‘I’m Mr Arnaud Martin, son of Philippe Martin, late a burgess of the town.’
‘Oh, Mr Martin, how does your mother?’
‘Well, thank you, sir. Have you any ale?’
‘Well, it’s late, sir, as I said. Oh my, very late indeed. Our guests are already abed, and we’d not want to disturb them with loud noise, would we?’ He paused, and Martin and Danforth held their peace, letting the silence of the room lend absurdity to his concerns. ‘But one small drink shouldn’t hurt, I dare say. Mistress Scott!’ His shout was barely more than a rasp. The sullen woman poured a meagre amount of flat ale into pewter mugs and passed them to her husband, who passed them to Martin and Danforth. The man resumed his humming, and Danforth recognised him as one of those fellows who does it incessantly, for reasons he had never understood. Likely he did not even notice he was doing it.
‘Thank you,’ said Danforth. ‘This is a fine place. Not like unto some of the taverns in this town.’
‘Oh, no sir, no, we’re not a tavern, no, not an alehouse. We’re an inn, sir. Young Martin, you work for the Lord Cardinal, is that right?’ Martin nodded. ‘And yourself?’ Danforth did the same, but the hairs on the back of his neck prickled. He felt a fraud, using the Cardinal’s name and fame when he and Martin were out of favour – little better than Boyle. His identity had long been predicated on being a Cardinal’s gentleman. Without that, he didn’t know what he was. ‘Though his Grace hasn’t visited us, we’ve housed many great men who have business in the castle. Oh yes, they all come here before they go up there, and they all remark favourably on our ale and our beds.’
Martin swished around the ale in his mouth. It was tasteless. He gulped it down. ‘I can see why, sir.’ Danforth swallowed his, passing his mug back over. It left a dirty rim on the bar, at which McTavish’s eyes widened. He quickly scooped up the mug, taking Martin’s from his hand, passed them both to his Mistress Scott, who snatched them away, and then set about cleaning it. ‘Oh dear, oh dear.’
‘We thank you for your hospitality,’ said Danforth, bowing. Martin gave only a curt incline of his dark head as he handed over his coins.
‘Our pleasure, sir, all ours.’ McTavish tapped the coins on the bar. ‘You’ll tell your mother I asked after her, young Martin?’ he asked in his high, whispering voice.
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Well, good night to you, gentlemen. We’ll be locking up now.’ His humming followed them as they left.
Out in the street, Martin spat on the ground. ‘I wish you would not,’ said Danforth huffily, taking his horse. ‘You were not kindly to that fellow.’
‘I don’t like him.’
‘Och, he seemed an honest enough man. He had the proper obeisance for the better sort, at any rate.’
‘And I suppose,’ said Martin, climbing up onto Coureur, ‘that as a host he provides his guests with music at no charge.’ Shaking his head and smiling, Danforth mounted his own horse and they set off for home. As they drew up before the house, Danforth turned to him.
‘Arnaud, I shall say nothing more of your conduct tonight, and I do not wish to sound like a schoolmaster.’
‘For once,’ said Martin, but his smile was affected. He looked embarrassed.
‘Save I feel I must warn you that vengeance is a dangerous thing.’ The smile disappeared. ‘It is an ungovernable passion, that waxes and wanes like the moon, driving men to madness.’
‘Mon dieu, your friends the old Greeks and Romans were not so hostile to vengeance. I might not have attended one of your universities, but that much I know.’
‘Yes, and look at what a pass they came to in the end. I tell you this as a friend, Arnaud, and because I believe – no, because I know – you to be a good Christian man. Vengeance belongs to the Lord, and when those who have wronged us slip, He shall bring doom upon them swiftly. Do not usurp God’s justice, my friend.’
6
Danforth’s bed was the Martin house’s best, save the marital bed still used by Alison. Whilst Martin had to make do with a cot, Danforth thus had the luxury of a good wooden frame and bolster, slotted together neatly to support a comfortable feather mattress. Though it was far from the great beds of the nobility – which were themselves little rooms walled in by thick hangings – it was still a great deal more comfortable than the sack-cloths filled with straw on which the luckier poor got to rest their bones.
Only one thing bothered him. He had, he realised as he emptied his pack, forgotten to bring his illuminated Book of Hours. Normally it went with him everywhere. As he tried to sleep, he kept turning over his forgetfulness in his mind: was he really becoming old, as Martin so often joked? No, there had to be something else in it. Perhaps it was an ill omen – but of what? Some bad news about the Cardinal to come? Something wicked to happen in the town? Or maybe it was a good omen – maybe it signified that, had he brought it, he should have lost it, the only gift he had from his late wife. There was no sure answer, but it had, he knew, to mean something. Everything always did.
In the morning, they ate a light breakfast of bread and cheese, and then prepared to go and hear Mass at the Holy Rude. It was a fine building, its apse rising from the ground in straight, imperious lines. Danforth had been impressed with it on every previous occasion. It sat on the lower slope of castle rock, bidding regal welcome to the grander sweep of its glorious neighbour. They had on their fur-lined cloaks and were preparing to accompany Alison – who usually rode with her servants – when Mistress Wilson came into the solar. In the misty morning light, her face was ashen.
‘Mistress Geddes,’ she said, her voice low. ‘I … young Graeme has been into the burgh this morning.’ Danforth pictured the boy, up at the break of dawn to purchase the freshest and best of the town’s produce for their dinner. He did not envy him the task.
‘Yes, Wilson? What news?’ Martin and Danforth exchanged glances. Something might have come in about the Cardinal.
‘It’s Mistress Furay.’ Both audibly relaxed. ‘She’s dead.’
It took much coaxing to get news out of Wilson, and ultimately Alison called in Graeme. He was visibly impressed by the solar. As one of the house’s lower servants, his greatest access above the ground floor was dinner in the outer great hall. As he spoke, his eyes kept wandering around the room. ‘It’s the big news down the market cross. Everybody’s sayin’ it. Her servant lassie, she found her. They only had that one lassie.’ Danforth was surprised. He had imagined Madeleine Furay must hav
e employed a team of servants, possibly in place of friends. Like himself, she had kept only one. He felt another little stab of unwelcome emotion. It didn’t seem possible that the pretty woman was dead. He knew what became of bodies once the soul had departed. Only the day before she had lived and breathed, been haughty and oddly charming.
‘What became of her?’ Danforth was surprised that his voice, when it came, was choked with the emotion he was trying to conceal.
‘The servant lass or Mistress Furay?’
‘Mistress Furay, of course.’
‘Dunno,’ he shrugged. ‘But it’s murder they’re sayin’. She came to some harm. In her own home, too.’
‘What of her husband?’
‘He wasn’t there, I never heard anythin’ about him.’
‘How long had she lain dead?’ Graeme shrugged again, as if confused by the questioning. He had heard only of the woman’s death and run back to report it, he repeated. ‘Can I go, now, sir?’
‘Aye, Graeme,’ said Martin. ‘You can go. Oh, maman.’ Danforth turned to see Alison collapsed on her settle, her face drained and her eyes closed. She wiped at them before opening them. Though they had turned bloodshot, no tears stood out. She picked up one of her cushions and stared at it. ‘Dead,’ she whispered. ‘That poor, foolish wee lass. She was going to bring me cushions.’
Fire & Faith Page 31