Fire & Faith

by Steven Veerapen

  ‘Guarded? I think … well, there’s few guards – this is no fast castle. I think those boys have a job of work to do guarding the queens’ rooms in the royal apartments. They cannae be everywhere.’

  ‘And so anyone might come and go from that entrance. In the night. In the dark.’ An image flashed through Danforth’s mind of a shadowy figure, lurking in the darkness under the arched gate, waiting for his moment. A murderer would be much easier to catch if all suspect men were trapped in one place. Life, unfortunately, provided too many entrances and exits. The cardinal’s mention of the word ‘stage’ swam up again.

  ‘I don’t want to get anyone into trouble, sir,’ said the gardener, removing his hat and scratching his head. ‘I don’t say anything against any man. The place is well defended enough.’

  ‘That is loyal of you.’

  ‘Aye. Loyal. You … you won’t tell the depute I was telling tales, then?’

  ‘Not if you do not wish me to,’ said Danforth. The man’s manner had changed at the thought of Forrest. Might that signify something? ‘Loyalty is a virtue. Tell me, did you work these gardens when Sir James Hamilton of Finnart was the keeper here?’

  ‘Aye.’ Danforth noticed his hands tightened on his bonnet, the knuckles whitening.

  ‘He was a good master?’

  ‘He was not our master, sir. Not really. More like an … a colleague, you’d say. A good man for the place – a builder.’

  ‘You regretted his death then?’

  ‘No. Yes. I mean – look, I’m no’ daft. I ken the old dream tales, the arms struck off. And I tell you this: it was no phantom left that corpse as I found it, but a man. If it was someone who sought revenge for Finnart’s death then it’s too late with the old king gone. He’d be after the little queen, his heir, or even your master the cardinal himself. Not some … some … cardinal’s servant.’

  Danforth watched as the gardener replaced his bonnet in a gesture of defiance. Their gazes locked as a light wind picked at them, ruffling their hair. ‘Well, as I thought there is little to be learned here. Perhaps we might return to the palace. Perchance you can find someone who can find me a quiet place.’

  Danforth shivered as he hiked back uphill to the palace, turning his nose away from the seething pool of refuse.

  ***

  ‘It’s good to see you. A true surprise. Are you hungry? I’ve not had any breakfast – I can’t say why. I’m here on the cardinal’s business. That’s what I do now, work for his Grace.’

  Martin had escorted Marion to a tavern, against her protestations that she was a married woman. She had only agreed on the proviso that her serving girl, basket over her arm, would stand sentry outside.

  ‘Good for you. No, I’m not hungry.’

  ‘Are you sure? I’m paying.’ Martin shook his purse, drawing several greedy glances from their fellow patrons. The place was busy.

  ‘Aye, I’m sure.’

  ‘So how have you been?’ asked Martin. ‘I’ve been blathering on about myself, I should have asked.’ He bit his lip. He certainly regretted being so eager to talk, but he didn’t want her to know it. He eased back on his stool and looked at her: blue eyes, light brown hair, and gleaming white teeth. She wasn’t smiling now, but he hoped to make her so that he might see them again. He wondered if she could read the hunger in his eyes and tried to dim it.

  ‘I’ve been well,’ she said, casting her eyes down to the hands she had clasped on the table. ‘I got married, you know.’

  ‘Aye,’ said Martin, annoyed. He hadn’t wanted her to talk about that. It was an unpleasant reality. ‘I did hear.’

  ‘And now I live here.’

  ‘Do you like it here? In Linlithgow I mean.’

  ‘Yes, It’s quiet, much quieter than Stirling. Or Edinburgh. How’s your ma’?’

  ‘She’s well – she’s in Edinburgh now. At my house. There was an accident a short time back. The house burned. You know my sister died?’

  ‘Aye, I was sorry to hear that. She was a good lassie. And your mother’s … well enough … without her?’

  ‘Aye, well, you remember my mother. A strong lady.’

  ‘Aye.’ Marion bent over the table, stifling a laugh. ‘She didn’t like me.’

  ‘What? She did so.’

  ‘She really didn’t.’ As she recovered from her giggle, she brushed away a strand of hair with two fingers: a well-remembered gesture that pierced him like a dart.

  ‘My mother likes everyone,’ Martin protested. In truth, his mother had said to him on more than one occasion that if Marion Muir were made of marzipan she would eat herself.

  ‘Well she kept it well hidden. She certainly didn’t like us going for walks in the woods.’

  Martin’s heart began to pound as he recalled those walks. The grasses would be knee deep as they strolled, aimlessly, the sunlight glinting in her hair as she picked at flowers. Sometimes they would take a blanket and lie down, talking for hours about people they knew and what they wanted to do with their lives. Kissing occasionally – too occasionally, for his liking.

  ‘Hmm,’ he said, returning to the dank tavern with its fishy smells and burble of chatter. ‘Here, do you remember that girl we used to know that followed me around everywhere?’

  ‘Meg Robertson?’

  ‘Aye! With the long face and the rat’s tail hair. Meg Robertson. What ever happened to her?’

  ‘I think she got married too.’

  ‘Jesus, who would have her!’

  Marion laughed then, teeth flashing. ‘Oh, you could always be so nasty.’

  ‘You were pretty good at it yourself. Do you remember calling her ‘Nutmeg’ with the wooden head?’ She laughed again.

  ‘Well I wasn’t so clever with words as you,’ she shrugged, still laughing. ‘That’s good, though, working with the cardinal. I did hear about that. We all knew you’d do well. Make something of yourself. Wee smart-arse.’

  ‘You did?’ Martin’s eyes flared. ‘You’ve kept informed about me?’

  ‘I just heard things, that’s all.’

  ‘I heard things too. I heard that you’d married. Some fat merchant who –’ Marion’s smile vanished, and she began to get up. ‘No wait, I’m sorry. I’m sorry, I didn’t mean …’ Martin trailed off. He knew he had no right to mock her husband. He had never met the man. It was not his fault Marion had chosen him. If he were to admit it to himself, it wasn’t Marion’s fault for choosing another man either. He had made a mistake trying to see her again.

  Slowly, with warning in her eyes, she settled back down. ‘I am sorry,’ he said. ‘I just … I’ve missed you. I’ve missed being your friend, I suppose. I just wanted to spend the time of day with you, you know, as we used to do.’

  ‘You … you didn’t meet me by chance?’ Something like fear crossed her face, replaced swiftly by concern. ‘Are you really well, Arnaud? Your health, I mean?’

  He barked laughter. ‘Sorry. No, I see what you mean. I’m fine, truly. I’m staying at the palace – within the palace. On the cardinal’s business, as I said.’

  Martin stared at her for a long moment. What had he intended? For her to run off with him, forsaking her husband? Perhaps. But he had not for a moment imagined it was likely. No, he supposed, his eyes following the curve of her cheek, the lines of her throat, he had wanted to see if he still loved her, after years of her just being an image. He had hoped that he could close the book of a story that had no ending but had dragged on for far too long.

  ‘It’s good seeing old friends,’ she said. ‘Sometimes. But I really do have to go. I have eggs to get still, milk. Other things.’ Martin nodded. Of course, she had to get the ordinary, boring things of everyday life. His pipe dreams of her falling into his arms splintered and faded, a reflection in a puddle stamped on by a child.

  Why did you marry him and not me? I will love you to the grave!

  ‘Of course you must. It was good seeing you, Marion.’

  ‘And you, Arnaud. We might meet each o
ther again. As friends.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Martin, hopeful that they wouldn’t. If he had taken any lesson from his stupidity, it was that broken things should be left broken, not forced together by a clumsy mender. He stood as she did, and he made to hug her. She let him, stiff in his arms, before stalking through the crowded tables, her head low. Martin watched the door of the tavern close behind her. Before he had time to curse his folly any further, a silky voice interrupted him.

  ‘That must have been a difficult thing to do. It was certainly a difficult thing to watch.’

  He turned, anger on his face, and found himself staring into the charcoal eyes of Rowan Allen.

  9

  Danforth settled himself into a hard, wooden chair in a room in the southern range of the palace, directly above the chapel. The smell of incense had permeated even there. It was comforting, although the room, a library he had been shown to by a slow-footed domestic servant, was almost denuded. He had scanned the shelves, but all that remained were some thin volumes on music, outdated and not worthy of being chained up.

  Away from the bustle, he crossed his hands on the desk and closed his eyes. He thought of dreams, visions, and prophecies. His own wife, in an English grave for years, had appeared to him nightly since his coming into Scotland, never ageing, always protesting that her death had been a mistake, a misunderstanding. Why, though? Some overflow of melancholy, an imbalance in his humours. She had revealed no secrets, cast no warnings of what lay ahead of him. Sometimes people he had known in England had appeared to him in dreams: people he never bothered thinking about in his waking life, as though they were annoyed at having been forgotten. Again, their parts were insubstantial, without cause or purpose. And then there was the more recent spate of odd dreams in which his teeth were falling out, but he put that down to Martin’s tiresome jabs about his turning thirty in April.

  He thought back. When Alice Danforth had haunted his sleeping hours to the point that he had feared to sleep, he had taken himself to the university at St Andrews. Using a fake name – Arthur Arturus or something equally stupid, as he recalled – he had consulted the scholars in St Salvator’s about dreaming. His questioning had sparked some debate. What had it been? What had been said?

  Yes, thought Danforth. Some had championed the idea that the health of the body governed dreams, which were themselves without rule or reason. Others insisted that the spiritual condition of the dreamer was in control, with God or the devil sending dreams accordingly. Fewer clung to the idea that dreams were predictors of the future, warnings, omens. In the end, there had been no agreement. No one knew why dreams came. To Danforth, it seemed likely that the solution must be some combination of all three. Idly, he took the pen and paper he had brought and began writing, hoping clarity might manifest itself from ink. When he had finished, he was almost surprised to see that he had fashioned a little script.

  Arthur Arturus: O great divines, what think you of my dreams?

  Scholar 1: Such dreams as come are bred in body only.

  Scholar 2: Cry false on him, good sir. For dreams we know

  Are sent from God and faith alone will blow

  All nightly terrors from the cursed mind.

  Scholar 3: Yet listen not to my unlearned friends

  For as Cassandra learned unto her cost

  Dreams are no toys but signify the most

  Strange events to come.

  Scholar 1: Stop your ears to all such foolish fancies

  For nothing comes of list’ning to such trash.

  Scholar 2: Turn instead to God to salve your woes.

  (Arthur Arturus knots the scholars’ beards together)

  Arthur Arturus: I think my friends you will now take advice

  For I have knit you all together close

  Draw your heads as one or be not loosed.

  He smiled at his little skit. It summed up his thinking and what he recalled of theirs. King James V might have been moist-brained, suffering distempered thoughts in his waking life that needled him at night. Yet, with an understanding of the body, an interpretation of the dream might be possible. The world knew that James had dreamt of having his arms struck off, with a warning that his head would be next. His arms were his sons, who did indeed die one after the other. The head, it was thought, was the king himself. Yet the royal head could never die – or, at least, every monarch had two of them, one natural and one political. The royal head was now that of the little Queen Mary. If the head was truly to be struck off, the baby would have to–

  Something tapped against the door and Danforth started, annoyed at being torn from his thoughts. It opened, and a young woman stepped in, light streaming behind her and highlighting the pale orchid of her gown. She cut it off as she softly drew it closed. Quickly he drew an arm over his scribbling, making a note to burn it later. ‘I am sorry,’ she said in a light French accent. She slipped forward, little white satin slippers peeking out from under her dress like mice. ‘I didn’t know there was anyone here.’

  ‘No matter, mistress,’ said Danforth, rising and frowning. As his eyes adjusted, he recognised her as the waiting woman who had staged the intervention when he and Martin had met the dowager: the girl who had bragged of the infant Queen Mary’s rude health.

  ‘It is … Monsieur Danforth, yes?’ A smile touched her eyes.

  ‘Oui, Mistress,’ he tried. He didn’t like it. ‘Aye.’

  ‘I didn’t mean to disturb. I’ll leave.’

  ‘No, no. You have business here?’ He eyed her sharply. What did a scatter-brained lassie want in a near-empty room? Up to no good, perhaps.

  ‘Her Grace sent me to see if there are any, uh, books. Left here, I mean. Most of her books were sent to Stirling.’

  ‘Ah, yes. So I have found. You will find poor pickings.’

  She strolled over, her arms demurely clasped over her lower bodice, and bent to peek at the books sitting sideways on the shelves. ‘Ach,’ she clucked, ‘so old and worn. We need books of music to entertain her Grace. She should be entertained with these only if she is cent ans.’

  ‘Santon?’

  ‘Has one-hundred years, I mean. She is a young woman yet.’

  ‘Of course,’ grumbled Danforth. If, he thought, the stupid girl did not mix her languages and speak as though speech were going out of fashion, he might have better understood her. ‘Well, music is music.’ A thought occurred. ‘My lady, uh…’

  ‘Beauterne,’ she chirped. ‘I’m Diane Beauterne. I serve Madame LeBoeuf, and so the queen.’

  ‘Very good.’ He measured her up. She was a pretty thing, the kind of ornament favoured by high-born women. Probably she had little to commend herself beyond some musical skill. Still, such women usually fluttered about palaces, gathering information as bees gather nectar. ‘Tell me, Mistress Beauterne, do you have much traffic with the dowager’s Italian minstrels?’

  ‘I know them, oui. Pleasant and merry men, those. It is for them I seek books. You should like them to entertain you?’

  ‘Very much,’ said Danforth, certain that he would like little less. ‘I should first like to speak to them. Do they speak Scots?’

  ‘Not well.’

  Damn, thought Danforth. His own Italian was negligible. He had tried, hoping, though he was loath to admit it to himself, that he might be able to take care of any embassies the cardinal might require be sent to the Vatican, but it was a lost cause. ‘Yet … if you traffic with these men … do you speak Italian?’

  Diane beamed, a blush creeping over her cheek, as she raised a hand and made a wobbly motion with her palm. ‘Un peu. Little bit.’

  ‘Where on earth did you learn that?’

  ‘At my mother’s lap,’ she said. ‘My mother attends on Madame la Dauphiness.’

  ‘The Princess Catherine?’ asked Danforth. Catherine de’ Medici, the barren wife of the French Dauphin. It was said she was an expert in poisons. It was she and her ilk that gave Italians such dark reputations. He suppressed a shudder. ‘Th
en I commend the education given you, mistress. It is a worthy talent to speak many languages.’

  ‘Oh, I’ve had a talent for it always,’ she beamed. ‘Talk, talk, talk, as une fille. My mother, she said I was like an … a sponge. I would take in every word.’ There was something needy in her voice, something almost childlike.

  ‘Yes, yes. Very good. Would you bring these Italians here, to this room, now? I should like to speak with them.’ She gave him a doubtful look and he sighed. ‘The dowager should like me to be thorough. Whilst you fetch these fellows, I shall look over these books of music and see if I cannot find something to please the ear.’

  With a little bow, Diane left the room and Danforth began picking up the tattered old books at random and looking for something religious and sedate.

  ***

  ‘No woman wishes to be stalked, like a deer,’ smiled Rowan. She eased herself onto the stool Marion had vacated.

  ‘Haul, would you steal her grave as quick?’ asked Martin, drumming his fingers on the table. He noticed he had bitten his nails to the quick. He must have been doing so whilst waiting to catch his quarry in the market cross.

  ‘The seat is empty,’ said Rowan, shrugging. ‘I doubt the lady is for returning. Don’t see what you seem to see in Marion Muir – a dull lass, from what I hear.’

  ‘She’s the fairest maid in the world!’

  ‘Her? Really? In the whole world? Well, you’re a flower of chivalry, to be sure – I’ll give you that. Tell me, Mr, what was it?’

  ‘Martin.’

  ‘Oh aye. Have you ever heard of Actaeon?’

  ‘No.’ Martin hid his hands under the table, staring moodily past her.

  ‘You should, if you’re an educated man. He was a Greek lad who was intent on spying on a goddess. He stalked her through the forest, and then became the prey himself. He was turned into a stag, in the tale I heard.’

  Rowan’s chatter brought Martin back into the room, chasing out the images of Marion’s departing back. ‘Greek lads,’ he said. ‘Where did a flower lassie get Greek tales?’