Fire & Faith

by Steven Veerapen

  ‘Then one day you might.’

  ‘No,’ she sighed. ‘It is just a lot of foolishness. I might as well hope to take dinner with the queen. You’re cruel, sir, to talk about hope like this. It’s cruel sport to make a person look at what will not ever be, and to suppose that it might.’ Martin sat next to her on the bed. The mattress was thin; the hard boards of the frame could be felt through it.

  ‘Then take this by reason of apology.’ Martin handed some more money over to the girl. Fear and greed played across her face.

  ‘I can’t do that. Not allowed. You’ve paid, and all monies must go to Mr McGuire and Mistress Sneddon.’

  ‘Hush – take it.’

  ‘No, sir. I’ve nowhere that it might be hidden. And I am not dishonest. I’m not some lying whore.’ Reluctantly, Martin replaced the money in his purse, and the purse within his cloak. He took a deep breath. The smell in the room was not as strong as it was in the passage outside. Rather than cloying sweetness, he inhaled the scent of unwashed skin and old cloth.

  ‘Please, Louisa, I know you won’t take my coin, and since I do not wish to ill-handle you, might you speak freely with me?’

  ‘As my conscious allows, sir.’

  ‘Call me Arnaud.’

  ‘That’s a strange name. It is not Scottish.’

  ‘It is French, as was my father.’

  ‘From across the sea,’ she said.

  ‘That’s right. Just so. You said that a Doctor McKenzie resided in this house.’

  ‘So he does, sir.’ Her voice dropped to a whisper, her eyes moving to the closed door.

  ‘And so he’s here now, in one of the rooms out there?’

  ‘Yes, sir – Arnaud.’ She mispronounced his name, stressing the syllables oddly. She began to look downwards, her hands playing with the material of her dress. She scrunched it up, then smoothed it out, then repeated the process. ‘He’s a bad man.’

  ‘How so, bad?’ He leaned in close, his face almost touching hers, but she would not meet him.

  ‘He … drinks too much. And then he comes here, full of fury.’

  ‘I wonder at that rake McGuire and his sow allowing it.’

  ‘He pays,’ she explained. ‘He has yet money, not all lost. Though I hope he shall make an end of it soon, and then he’ll be cast out. You need money here.’

  ‘What does he do, in his fury?’

  ‘He rages, sir, against every slight he imagines against himself. It is better when he’s just full of angry shouting. He can then just shout himself hoarse and fall asleep. When he sobers he does mischief with the girls here. He … he turns violent hands upon us.’

  ‘Has he done this to you?’ Cold anger simmered in Martin’s voice. He would not tolerate any man doing violence against a defenceless young woman. The thought of it needled him, rousing fury of his own. Louisa shook her head.

  ‘No, sir, he’s not concerned with me. He raises his hands against the older girls when they displease him. The women, I should say, for they’re not much younger than Mistress Sneddon. They’re his special favourites. He likes … to hurt the older women.’

  Martin stood up, his legs quaking with anger. ‘In which room lies McKenzie?’

  ‘In the first room, sir, after the hall. You’re not going to say anything, or do anything, are you?’ Sudden panic overcame her. ‘I’ll get it if you do. I should’ve held my tongue. Please, Arnaud. Please be silent; please let him alone. I’ll do anything you want.’

  Martin stood between Louisa and the doorway, his face stricken, moved by her appeal, and yet aching to smash his way into the first bedchamber, bringing the type of fear into McKenzie’s face that he must have brought into the women he abused: the type of fear that he must have brought into his sister, Christian, as he cut into her and killed her.

  ‘I’m sorry, Louisa.’ His voice was dry, rustling like an autumn leaf in a gutter. ‘I must see him.’

  ‘You liar! Cheat! Bastard!’ He pulled the door closed on her anger, shutting his eyes as he did so. He padded towards back towards the front of the building, past a door and on to the next: the one before the hall. Lust-filled eyes followed his passage, staring down from the murals and papers. Something nudged at the periphery of his consciousness. What was disturbing, he supposed, was that the painting and drawings were more than just tawdry attempts to stimulate the erotic mind. They were like obscene parodies of a religious house, or even a royal one. Holy paintings and tapestries habitually fired the soul in outer rooms of monasteries and churches. Great dynastic portraits cowed those approaching the presence of monarchs. These, however, were a twisted inversion, appealing to man’s darker nature and inducting him into vice. He had been foolish to rush in. Yet he had done so and must see it through. God help me, he thought, I am thinking like old Danforth. He tried to push all thoughts from his mind.

  He put a hand on the handle of the door of McKenzie’s chamber. Again, he closed his eyes, his other hand reaching for his dirk. He did not want to pause and think, knowing he had made promises, assuring himself vaguely that he meant only to frighten and then laugh at the creature beyond the door.

  ‘What in hell’s name do you think you’re doing, you daft wee rogue?’ Marjorie Sneddon had come into the passage, one hand on a padded hip. ‘Whatever it might be, I’d advise you think on it again, lad. One whisper of strangeness here and I’ll rip off your codpiece. You’ve been too short a time to do it yersel.’

  ‘What the hell is this?’ McGuire had come into the passage behind her and stood on tiptoes to see over her shoulder. ‘He’s done wi’ the girl?’

  ‘Aye,’ said Sneddon. ‘He’s done, to be sure.’

  ‘That was quick, lad. Your misfortune. You’ll learn.’

  ‘Wheesht,’ cried a thick voice, muffled by the door. ‘You damned curs! Cannot a man sleep in his wench’s arms in peace?’ Hairs rose on the back of Martin’s neck at the sound of what could only be John McKenzie’s voice. Looking between the door and his hostesses, he made an effort to recover good humour.

  ‘I have not the rude health of this fellow, it seems. But …’ He was unsure how to continue.

  ‘But us no buts.’ Sneddon silenced him with a warning look. ‘I wot not what you are after further, boy, but you’ve had your time with the lass and there’s an end to it. Go away from here.’

  Defeated, Martin hung his head and stepped away from McKenzie’s door. Again the man had seemed within his reach, within the limits of a satisfying revenge, and interruption had prevented him from attaining it. He pushed past Marjorie Sneddon, who flattened her back against the wall. McGuire clawed at a thin beard, his eyes passing between his madam and Martin, as though unsure what precisely he had missed.

  As he passed blinking into the dull daylight, Martin wondered if the failure of his attempts to confront John McKenzie were not some kind of intervention. God might be saving the man for some greater judgement, as Danforth had suggested, and his attempts might be as a flea biting at rat when a great, angry lion waited patiently to pounce upon it. It would not do to be the flea if that were the case.

  11

  Danforth called up, outraged and relieved, when Martin’s ashen face appeared out of the door of the stew. ‘What spirit of madness possessed you, sir, to go into such a place? Come down here at once and face me.’

  He had walked up and down the alley nonstop since Martin had disappeared, muttering curses to himself and shaking his head angrily, looking for all the world like a madman. Several others had come into the street, looked at him oddly, and turned away, either back towards St Mary’s Wynd itself, or into Sharp’s inn. One visitor had even been dressed in the grey robes of a Franciscan monk. Startled at the sight of Danforth pacing wildly, he had turned red, turned his back, and hurried out of the area. Obviously, thought Danforth, he was some almoner from the Greyfriars come to give succour to the poor of the burgh. He would have welcomed speaking to the man, if only he had not been so surprised and shame-faced.

  Martin c
lambered down the stairs, one hand against the wall. His face betrayed nervous, excitable energy, which appeared to Danforth to be mercifully unfulfilled. ‘I’m sorry, Simon; I couldn’t stop myself. I was there, I heard his voice, he was in there, I was that close to him, Simon, I could have killed him, but –’ His voice was breathless.

  ‘And I left to wonder at what might become of you, at what trouble you might bring down upon our heads. I had to stifle the urge to kick out and smash something in my anger.’

  ‘Then,’ said Martin, his voice calming down, ‘you are a true Scotsman at last.’

  The tension drained, and Danforth’s rage blew itself out. Shaking his head in as great a display of disapproving peevishness as he could, he turned to the stable. ‘I trust that you did not molest that McKenzie? That you did nothing that will bring further disgrace upon us and … upon us?’

  ‘No, Simon. He lies in his bed still, unbroken save in spirit, I hope.’

  ‘And there might we now make an end to it? When his Grace is free, he might have some measure of interest in bringing charges against a man whom we can now avow to be guilty of crimes spiritual. Let us go home. There might yet be something left for us to eat. I confess I am hungry.’

  ‘Yes, let’s go. Let’s get out of here.’ Martin’s voice was still excitable. He needed to be talking. ‘But what a place that was.’

  ‘Oh,’ said Danforth, instantly attempting the adopt the guise of an urbane, older gentleman, uninterested in the scandalous affairs of the world because he had seen and grown bored with them long since. ‘Such knowledge as is badly come by shall do you no favours hereafter.’

  ‘That Louisa lassie, she’d take no help from me. She’s broken, defeated.’

  ‘Then more fool her.’

  ‘She hopes to live by the sea.’

  ‘Better she were in it, where maidens of her ilk are said to dwell.’

  ‘And the walls, Simon, the figures that are there painted. I cannot imagine waking each day to see such things.’

  ‘As the great whoremaster, Henry of England, seeks to baptise all nations in his own false Church, so too do such stews seek to invert and pervert the decorations of true houses.’

  ‘Such was my thinking.’

  ‘Yes, I am sure,’ said Danforth, allowing himself the pleasure of sarcasm as he stepped carefully around the mulch of the stable. Martin waited outside it.

  ‘Well, maybe not so poetic. Despite your great age, Simon, you’re not the only man in the world whose mind turns. Anyway,’ he hurried on, ‘the place was governed by a fat old woman and a crabbit old man, collecting monies as though he were but an honest tradesman. And that rat McKenzie uses violence against the women of the place: well, not Louisa, to be sure, but the elders. About the walls there are papers, Simon, showing all manner of unnatural acts, like the lustful–’

  ‘Arnaud, I do not–’

  Danforth froze.

  ‘What, sir; has my prating tongue stopped yours?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Danforth, with no trace of levity. ‘Yes, it has.’

  He replaced Woebegone’s reins on the low hitching post from which he had only just taken them. ‘What ails you?’ asked Martin. ‘You look sick, all of a sudden.’

  ‘I am, Mr Martin. It seems I must go into the Temple of Venus Erycina myself.’

  ‘I don’t follow you.’

  ‘I do not wish you to. Not just yet. It is mere suspicion.’

  Danforth stomped straight through the filth and out of the stable, his face set. To Martin’s surprise he made for the stairs up to the stew, taking them heavily. He followed. Danforth beat on the door with his forearm, pulling his cap low over his face with his left hand. Eventually his tattoo was answered by Marjorie Sneddon, her broad face thunderous.

  ‘No need, sir, no need.’ Her bulbous eyes measured up her guest. ‘You’re no’ some man of the law? This is a private home.’

  ‘I am no baillie, no burgess of the town.’ He could not bring himself to call her “mistress”. ‘Yet I would come into this place.’

  ‘You would, would you? In this house you pay first.’ She cast a disapproving eye down to his boots.

  ‘You are the owner?’

  ‘McGuire’s within.’ Danforth considered pushing past her, into the stifling heat and overpowering scent. He wondered if he would have the strength to do so, or if she might knock him from the steps with one arm. Before he could speak further, Sneddon spotted Martin, who had come up the stairs at his back.

  ‘You again? Lad, if you didnae get the worth of your money the first time then that’s only too bad. If you come to make trouble with a friend, that’s worse. Set foot in this house again and you both pay double for proof against trouble.’

  ‘You’re turned poet,’ smiled Martin. ‘There’s a lot of that about.’ Danforth glared at him.

  ‘I say you pay again, and double, whether you took your pleasure last time or not.’

  ‘Then,’ said Danforth, ‘you must allow us passage.’ Sneddon said nothing for a few beats, weighing them up. Then she stepped backwards, beckoning them in. She stayed in the passage, just beyond the open door. As soon as Danforth’s eyes adjusted, they fell immediately upon the walls. Opposite the door to the hall, a crudely limned approximation of Priapus grinned from a wooded glade.

  ‘What is this, mistress, custom?’ McGuire’s head popped out of the doorway. ‘The wee man has brought a friend? This is a private house, sir, belonging to my wife and myself. If you are gentlemen of the law, we’ve nothing to say. If you are come to amuse yourselves, you must pay double.’

  ‘I’ve said to them,’ said Sneddon, receiving a withering look in return.

  ‘I am here only to look upon your gallery,’ said Danforth.

  ‘Still you pay to enter this house. Christ, I should have a bloody sign painted saying that.’ McGuire’s tone would brook no argument. Grumbling under his breath, Danforth reached into his cloak, extracted his purse, and found the smallest coins he had. He had spent little since coming to Stirling, but he had no wish to let the whoremaster and grotesque creature he called a wife know that, and still less to profit by it. He whipped the coins into the hall, sending a cursing McGuire back inside. ‘There. Your payment in full, and all you shall have by me.’

  Marjorie Sneddon said nothing. Her bearing was proud, almost stately. As her chest rose and fell, the candlelight played upon the old, cheaply-dyed material, turning it various shades of rose. Danforth took a step towards her, but she did neither flinched nor blinked. Turning to the walls, he put a finger to his lips in a speculative gesture. ‘You have had some artist here?’ The paint was faded. ‘Some long time since, I should think.’

  ‘McGuire and I set to work here, sir, long ago. What’s it to you?’

  ‘A strange manner of work.’ The images were poor, but bold, bearing little resemblance to either real humans or imaginary gods. Like the works of the poor artists of centuries before, they were flat. Sneddon said nothing. Danforth reached out to one of the papers Martin had spoken of, nailed to the wall. It showed a smiling woman, her hair covering her nakedness, reaching out to caress a naked man, like a lascivious Adam and Eve. The woman wore a little coronet.

  With a flick of his wrist, Danforth tore down the drawing. ‘Hawl, what are you all about’ Sneddon screeched, lumbering forwards. ‘Don’t you come in here and tear down our stuff.’

  ‘Such images as these are the only ones I seek,’ said Danforth, uncomfortably. The stupid oaf had made him sound like one of the schismatic men, angry at wholesome, holy pictures. ‘From where did this come? Where is its origin?’

  ‘I don’t know. The continent.’

  ‘Ah. You trade in these things?’

  ‘We might.’ Her face turned sly. ‘You’re looking to buy then are you? No need to feign outrage, sir. If you have money, you might trade. We are grown people here.’

  Danforth let Adam and Eve begin a meandering journey to carpeted floor. Sneddon’s eyes followed them, but she
did not move. ‘And so you sell such trifles to men with little wit. How marvellous.’

  ‘If you think that then you’re the one wi’ little wit, sir.’

  ‘Don’t try and match yours with mine, you malapert old whore.’ Behind him, Martin bristled, interested in the turn of events but uncomfortable with the abuse, however honestly it was meant. ‘Yet tell me, in God’s truth, if you have ever before laid eyes on this.’ He produced the thin book of images, tied with string, from his pocket. It had lain there since he had taken it from the Furay house, like a dark little secret. His greatest fear was that some servant might find it at Martin’s house and take it to be his property. As he had with Walter Furay, he spread the book open, its leaves facing outward.

  He watched Marjorie Sneddon closely. She leaned in and her eyes bulged. Then she seemed to shrivel into her large frame, becoming a scared old woman. ‘Where did you come by this, sir?’

  ‘It is no matter. You have then seen it before?’

  ‘No, sir.’ She shook her head to emphasise her certainty. ‘No, indeed. Oh, books like it, yes. They are all one in our trade.’

  ‘From whom do you make purchase of them?’

  ‘I canna say, sir. Gentleman leave them here, at times. Still others will take some pages. They come and they go, these things, like the gentlemen themselves.’

  ‘And you can tell me nothing more of these?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘What of your … um … husband?’ asked Martin. ‘Perhaps he can tell us.’

  ‘I’ve never seen that before in my life.’ Danforth and Martin jumped at the sound of McGuire’s voice. He had crept out of the hall and into the passage behind them. ‘As Sneddon says, some men take such books when they leave; some leave some; some girls take some when they leave; some bring some. We don’t concern ourselves reading such them. A good tradesman doesnae make merry with his own merchandise.’