‘Very good, mistress. Well, then, you are a seller of flowers and herbs. Be about your selling. Not here … walking.’
‘Ask her her name,’ called Martin.
‘Tell your friend my name is Mistress Allen. Rowan Allen.’
‘Rowan?’ spluttered Danforth. ‘That is no name!’
‘Oh?’ she said, brown flaring over her high cheekbones. ‘Perhaps my father was inordinately fond of trees. You have a marvellous way with women, Mr …’
‘Danforth. English secretary to his Grace the Lord Cardinal Beaton.’ Danforth turned rigid, his back straightening. An antidote to embarrassment. ‘We bid you, again, good day, again. Onwards, gentlemen.’
They rode on, Mathieu giving Rowan a wave and Martin giving her a full-toothed grin and a graceful half-bow. Danforth resisted the urge to turn when Martin spoke. ‘Mr Danforth, I think you took a liking to that woman. Well, good for you. A pretty one. Bit dark, though. Moorish, almost. Tawny. Seemed to have a ready wit, though.’
‘Keep your filthy tongue in your head, Mr Martin. You are … you are corrupting our young friend with your lewd ways. Nonsense.’ But his mind was picturing the black eyes, imagining her becoming a blue speck as she disappeared down the Kirkgate to wherever it might be that she lived. She reminded him of another woman he had briefly seen in London: a woman whom he had blamed for all of his misfortunes there.
The path passed a stone arch, above which the chivalric insignia of James V were carved and painted in red, blue, and gold: St Michael, the golden fleece, the garter, and the thistle. Danforth’s eyes lingered on the thistle, purple and green. The colours and the carvings would live on, be repainted if necessary, even though the man had gone. Then he was under them, thrust into gloom, and out the other side. The neat parish church of St Michael’s stood inside the outer gate to the right. Danforth looked up, to the crown steeple at the top. It was a shame that services were not on. It must be a good sight on the insight. Still, he thought, there was no use in crying over what ought to be. Instead he rode on to the main entrance, where he drew Woebegone to a stop. In a narrow hall to his right a porter stood urinating against the wall, oblivious to the splashing. The reek from the passage announced with a tang that he was not the first.
‘Wait there, gonnae,’ the man called up, twisting his neck round. ‘Nearly there. Takes as long as it takes, for Chrissakes.’
‘Indeed I must wait here, or else are we to thrust ourselves into the queen’s presence?’
‘Hold yer horses,’ the man said, fixing his breeches as he turned. ‘What are you, more cardinal’s men?’ He leant forward, looking behind Danforth. ‘Och, Mathieu, boy, it’s yersel. You’ve been a time.’
‘We,’ said Danforth, fighting to keep his voice as imperious as he could, ‘are well trusted servants of his Grace the lord cardinal.’
‘Aye, well, I’ll wish you more luck than the last yin.’
‘Precisely that is become our business.’ Lax, thought Danforth. The whole place was lax, from the flower-girl wandering out to the porter unconcerned at their sudden appearance. ‘Yet we might well have stolen this boy, killed the cardinal’s true servants, and come here in their garb to slay the queen, her mother, and the whole rabble here.’
‘Two of ye?’ asked the porter. ‘You’d have a job there, right enough. Stop your jesting, boy. Go on in, get the beasts stabled. Gibb’ll take ‘em.’
Danforth shook the reins without another word, refusing on principle to acknowledge the man with anything more than an upturned head. He led the party forward into an open quadrangle, the centre of which was dominated by a varicoloured, circular fountain splashing icy water. At irregular intervals sat flaming braziers, clusters of servants gathered around each of them. The place was, Danforth begrudgingly admitted, impressive: a neat square formed of perfectly aligned ranges, stretching four storeys high. Such places as he had seen in England were sprawling collections of rooms, added to as and when, with little thought of coherence. Here was a carefully sculpted exercise in taste and elegance, tall, neat, and symmetrical. A giant jewel box, stretching heavenward. The word ‘graceful’ swept serenely through his mind.
Yes, he thought. He would be very comfortable here.
***
Mathieu directed them to the stables in the south-eastern corner; they dismounted, and led the horses in. A man’s jovial voice greeted them, but it was aimed elsewhere. He was barking orders at a servant who was polishing a monstrous carriage. A rare sight in Scotland, the few in existence were the property of Marie of Guise. Danforth’s heart fluttered at the sight of the great mechanical beast. Here, he thought, was royal splendour, beyond anything even the cardinal took on his cavalcades.
‘What’s this, fresh meat?’ said the man, turning from the carriage.
‘Mr Gibb?’
‘Aye, call me Rab. Rab Gibb, master of the queen’s stable. A pleasure to meet you, gents. Get the last of that dirt out, son,’ he added over his shoulder to his underling.
‘Good day to you, Mr Gibb,’ said Danforth. He became aware suddenly of a tugging at his sleeve. ‘What, what is it, Mathieu?’
‘Can I go, sir, and tell the queen mother that you two are come? She doesn’t like to be kept waiting.’
‘Yes, boy, go.’ Mathieu scurried off, leaving Danforth and Martin with the stable master. ‘Mr Gibb, we are Cardinal Beaton’s servants. Would you be so good as to take charge of our horses?’
Gibb gave the horses long looks. ‘We’re muckle busy at the present, lads.’ He gestured around the small space. Almost all of the individual paddocks were occupied. He turned back to Danforth and Martin. ‘Her Grace the dowager has …’ He mouthed the word ‘spies’ silently, before speaking. ‘Guests. Hamilton and Douglas kinfolk, watching over her safety and that of the new queen. Yet … aye, I’m sure those fine guests won’t mind their beasts being shunted down into the burgh stables. I doubt they’re going anywhere.’ He gave a wink.
Danforth’s mind worked rapidly as he took in this news. The Douglas clan, hand in glove with the Hamiltons, were Cardinal Beaton’s enemies. They were now the party of England, the minions of Henry VIII. If they were here, that meant … well, he was unsure exactly what it meant. Investigating important people was a hazard. But whether they had anything to do with Fraser’s death or not, they would be watching him and Martin, reporting back to their own masters. He would have to tread carefully. This was not some minor domestic case. He was not pitting his wits against a shiftless criminal or a frenzied killer, but perhaps against some organised plotters. And whatever had occurred in the palace, a bevy of high-toned, dagger-wielding adherents of two slippery noble houses was an unwelcome complication. Gibb’s voice drew him out of his own head, forcing him to paste on a friendly, returning smile. Already, he thought, the playing had begun.
‘So you leave your beasts with me. Though I don’t think much of this one, what is it, a plough horse? Shouldn’t be riding a plough horse any distance.’
‘I …’ Danforth began, suddenly ashamed. He had always been proud of only keeping an old beast: there was nothing to be proud of in a horse. Yet in a royal stable it seemed a little mean. Strangely, the thought intruded of what it would mean to be in royal service. Had his wife and child lived, they might have been gentlewomen. He might have been obliged to keep them in furs and jewels. Would they have liked that, Alice or little Margaret? He shut the thought down. ‘Just take care of him. We understand his Grace’s last servant has met with an accident of some kind.’
‘Some accident.’
‘So he was slain truly?’
‘Unless he struck off his own arms.’ Gibb’ smiled faded. ‘The common voice cries devilry.’
‘Mr Gibbs, this is terrible news.’
‘Yes,’ added Martin. ‘What’s the security of this place?’
‘And where was the body found?’ asked Danforth.
‘Where is it now?’ put in Martin.
‘Hold, gents,’ said Gibb. ‘I’m only i
n charge of the stables. The body is laid out in the chapel’s anteroom, all proper. In bits, right enough. The security, as you call it, is not good. I’ve served the Stewarts man and boy and I’ll tell you, Linlithgow is built for pleasure, not safety.’
‘Could a killer from without have got inside this place?’ asked Danforth.
‘I can’t say. Maybe. Or Maybe someone drew him out. If you want particulars, you’ll have to talk to the queen mother’s depute of the guard.’
‘We’ll do that,’ said Martin.
‘I’d get me to the lady herself first, though. Wee Mathieu spoke the truth. Her Grace likes swift action.’
‘Where is her master of the household, or a chamberlain?’
‘In Holyrood,’ said Gibb, frowning for the first time. ‘All the great men who held office under the old king have joined the governor’s Court since he died. Few know the meaning of loyalty, it’s all run with times, run with the times. Give me a Stewart queen over a lord protector any day.’
Danforth nodded his head. There was something tragic about that: a queen, turned dowager, losing her entire household to a wealthy young noble who styled himself first prince of the blood. Gibb was right – there was little loyalty in men. ‘Right, I’ll have young fella-ma-lad here take your packs to the servants’ quarters,’ said Gibb, jerking a thumb at the crouching boy tending the carriage. Danforth felt a little stab of anxiety. His things were tucked away in his pack over Woebegone’s pack: his cutlery, rosary, pens, even his valuable Book of Hours, a gift from his wife. The thought of some domestic nosing through them was not to be borne. Still, sacrifices had to be made in service.
‘You’ll have to rely on her usher. He’ll like you, will Guthrie. He’s hot on religion. Likely as not bend your lugs off about it,’ said Gibb.
‘You don’t mean he’s one of these questing reformers, do you?’ asked Danforth, his voice suddenly sharp.
‘Wounds, no – nothing like that. There is nothing like that here. Believe me, none, if that’s what you’re after. No, our long-tongued usher is hot on Rome.’
‘Very well,’ replied Danforth, his arms folding over his chest as he fixed the boy’s back with a glare. ‘Have a care with them.’
He patted farewell to Woebegone, passing him into the care of the horse master and his boy. Both seemed cheerful enough. There was something odd in that. A man killed, and yet the place seemed to be going on. He stepped on the thought before it could grow into suspicion. Of course life went on, even after a tragedy. It was a sign of good governance of a household that it could.
With the thought came the unbidden one that had plagued him during his last night in his own bed. If he were to be killed, or to die suddenly, the world would go on without him, his hoard of belongings dispersed to charity. He governed his own household, meagre though it was, well. Yet it was governed with no thought to its future, it was governed to be passed on to no one. After his father’s death, and the deaths of Alice and Margaret, the Danforth household had simply ceased to be, forgotten, he imagined, by all who remained in England. Would old Mistress Pollock be so cheerful once he had gone, and his own stable boy relieved to be free of him? It was a sobering thought. When he had concluded his business here, then he would have to think seriously about it all. It was a strange thing about thoughts – they were like the evils contained in Pandora’s box. He would have to confront them now that they had been released; but not now. For the moment, he retrained his mind. He took one last look at Gibb, at the horses, at the great carriage, and then turned his back on them.
He and Martin left their horses and re-entered the central courtyard. Danforth hadn’t heard the church bells of St Michael’s and realised he had no idea of the time. The winter day revealed nothing. The scattered servants still seemed to be warming themselves and chatting – that meant that dinner was well over and supper not yet begun.
‘Well, Arnaud, are you ready to make this queen’s acquaintance?’
‘Oh aye,’ said Martin. Already he was twirling the feather in his cap with one hand and picking at his teeth with another. Danforth was unsurprised to see that he had already shone up the jewelled buttons he’d had sewn onto his livery. Danforth looked down at his own regulation wooded ones, as he heard Martin trill, ‘I daresay she’ll be impressed with me at least.’
5
‘So you’ve never been to Rome then? That’s a shame, I’d like to see Rome. All that work they’re doing on the basilica – it’s the place to be. You’ll be staying just off the hall in the north range. Some of the young wits call it Thieves Row, after a dangerous street in Edinburgh – isn’t that wicked of them? Fancy themselves wits, anyway. You’ll be quite safe, mind you, and you’ll not find any drunken bundles of iniquity there. It’s these young ones, they speak with such irreverence, it’s no wonder they invite the devil to walk amongst us.’ Gibb had spoken true. The usher, Anthony Guthrie, was chattering aimlessly. Danforth took an immediate dislike to him. His own father had been a gentleman usher in Cardinal Wolsey’s household, and William Danforth would never have dreamt of making bawdy small talk with visitors. It was the hallmark of a good servant that he kept his thoughts and opinions to himself, no matter how strongly felt. Unless asked, of course. Guthrie had been asked nothing. They went up a flight of stairs, where he briefly paused at a pair of tall doors. ‘The king’s rooms,’ he said, drawing a cross on them. ‘God rest his Grace. We have to go up one more to the dowager’s apartments.’ They followed him, Danforth putting a hand out to the curving wall as the stairs whirled. ‘Right, boys, here we are.’
The usher stopped before a large wooden door on the second floor in the southwest tower. A large silver crucifix, which had been bouncing in time with his light steps, settled back against his chest. ‘Inside here is the outer chamber. Follow me.’ He gave the door three sharp raps with his stave before opening it.
Inside was a large room, about which some women sat playing cards and giggling. They looked up and then immediately back down at their hands, the light streaming down on them from tall, lead-lined glass windows. ‘Come on,’ said Guthrie, ‘look sharp now, eyes front.’
‘We’re not savages,’ said Martin, not bothering to lower his voice. ‘We’re cardinal’s men, we know to how behave.’
‘Oh, hark at it. You’re not in a clergyman’s house now, but a queen’s. You listen to me and don’t be so saucy. What did I say about you young ones – the things you bring down about our heads.’ Their bootsteps echoed on the polished stone floor, patterned in great red and yellow diamonds, as they processed through, watched not only by the waiting women, but by the sightless eyes of the saintly women dominating the room’s tapestries.
Across the room was another door, and again Guthrie beat on it before opening it. ‘The queen mother may be in here. The inner chamber. Boots clean? Nails clean?’ A blush crept into his rosy face. ‘Oh, Mr Martin, you might have got your beard trimmed first. Ach, too late for that now. Ready?’ He pushed open the door.
The inner chamber was smaller but far more crowded. Instead of the History of Ladies, the walls were decorated by silk-and-wool images of Hercules, each panel depicting a different labour. An enormous fireplace roared, and the air was heavy with the good smell of burning wood and the acrid smell of perfume. Even the rushes which lay on the bits of floor not covered by carpets seemed to issue scent. Against the left-hand wall Marie of Guise sat on a wooden throne, embroidery in her lap. Danforth’s first glimpse of her was in profile. As he had always thought, she would have been an extraordinary beauty had it not been for the long, fluted nose, which led her instead into the realms of the handsome. If she had gained weight from her multiple pregnancies over the years, the voluminous, shimmering black gown hid it. She turned to them and smiled as Guthrie announced their arrival in an affected, imperious voice. Both fell into deep bows.
‘Monsieur Danforth et Monsieur Martin,’ she said, and then, in a heavy accent, ‘me am most very glad to see you. Me am a great friend
to England and to France.’
Danforth kept his eyes down, unsure of himself. They were not there as emissaries of England or France. Had Mathieu garbled another message? Still Marie went on. ‘Me would speak … en privé … with youse. The better to share my mind. Please, be to follow me.’ She rose from her throne and made her stately progress to the opposite side of the room, the groups of richly-dressed men and women parting for her, a rippling jelly of black, sage, navy, and red. She nodded down her thanks; she towered over all of them. Another door lay ahead of her, this one guarded on either side by armoured men, their halberds held to attention. One of them opened it and she passed through. It was slammed again.
Danforth and Martin looked at each other, before giving sharp nods and picking their own way through the hangers-on. They were less respectful of the interlopers; the pair could feel the eyes on them and hear the low whispers from dozens of mouths. As they reached the far door, the guards crossed their halberds over it. ‘State your names’ said one. ‘And business,’ added the other.
‘Really?’ asked Martin. ‘You just heard –’
‘They are Mr Danforth and Mr Martin, servants of Cardinal Beaton, and they would speak with her Grace Queen Marie.’ Guthrie had trailed them.
Instantly, the halberds were pulled back up. Guthrie did his routine door-beating before pushing it open. Danforth looked at Martin, who was wearing an expression of bemused disbelief. Although he let his own face fall into what he always thought of as his ‘service face’ – slack, expressionless, neither smiling nor frowning – he was pleased. Here, at last, was some proper order. Martin motioned for him to go first and stepped into a cool cocoon of violet. The door slammed shut behind the two of them.
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