Fire & Faith

by Steven Veerapen

  ‘Is it not then?’ asked Martin. ‘Well, laddie, the old man’s spoken. Off you go.’ He stooped to pick up the makeshift ball and threw it to Mathieu.

  ‘Can we play again later?’

  ‘Aye, maybe after dinner. Don’t let the queen’s ladies catch you at leisure, though.’

  ‘Her Grace has them in the gardens,’ protested Mathieu, clutching the ball to his chest, and jutting his bottom lip.

  ‘Then you had best see if they have any need for you,’ said Danforth, waving a hand to the western rooms. ‘Look sharp, now.’

  Mathieu stalked off, dragging his feet. Satisfied that he had gone on to meaningful work, Danforth shook his head at Martin and led him to their room, closing the door. There he looked him up and down. He seemed deflated, somehow. ‘You should not lead that child astray. It is poor training.’ No response. ‘This is a serious matter, Mr Martin. It is not games.’ Still Martin did not rise to it. ‘We have the queen dowager and our master’s orders here. We are not our own men.’ Pride crept into Danforth’s voice, giving it weight. ‘You know, it struck me earlier that this killer might well aim at the queen’s life, as the dowager fears.’

  ‘Then why kill Fraser?’

  There, thought Danforth. At last some interest. ‘To draw the guards away from the nursery, perhaps. To spread them thinly. I cannot say. But if this is truly the case, if there is some design on our sovereign’s life … we might well be all that stands between this realm and its destruction.’

  Martin let out a whistling breath. ‘Think on the rewards of that.’

  ‘Yes. Yes indeed. The glory of God.’

  ‘The glory of our purses, more like. The honours heaped.’

  Danforth crossed his arms. ‘Turn your mind away from that, sir. It might have escaped your notice, but this country is without spiritual life whilst his Grace is imprisoned. That – it – it makes for a sick realm, apt to infection. If we can salve it, we might be its …’ He was about to say “physicians”. Martin would undoubtedly balk at that. Instead, he asked ‘did you discover anything in the burgh?’

  ‘Not really,’ said Martin, biting at his pinkie nail.

  ‘Well that does us little good, then.’ He let silence stretch awhile, before venturing, ‘Mr Martin, forgive me if I am pressing upon you. But we are friends, and I think it my place to ask if you had some other purpose in visiting the town. I noted your manner last night. I own I did not like it.’

  Martin flopped down onto his bunk, his manner now that of a guilty child. Eventually he looked at Danforth. ‘Aye,’ he said. ‘Aye, I wanted to see Marion Muir.’

  ‘Marion? Marion the girl of your past?’

  ‘Aye, the same.’

  Danforth tried on a look of anger, and then let it drop, sighing. He crossed to Martin and put a hand on his shoulder, withdrawing it as quickly. ‘She is married, yes?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And you are …’ Danforth tried to think, unsure of what to say but willing the conversation to be over. Friendship was a burden when people insisted on behaving like fools. ‘You found what you were looking for, I hope. Now you might go forward as a freer man.’

  ‘Aye, s’pose so.’

  ‘You will not though, will you?’ said Danforth tilting his head and pinching the bridge of his nose.

  ‘Likely not. To be honest.’

  ‘We are all of us fools, then, in our fashion.’

  ‘How so,’ asked Martin, shaking his head clear. ‘What did you do? Discover anything?’

  ‘I questioned those Italian minstrels. With no great subtlety. That infuriating French girl aided me – you recall, the one who intruded on our meeting with the dowager?’

  ‘Oh aye. Mademoiselle Beauterne,’ he said, with a flourish. ‘Never forget a name,’ he winked. ‘She was a pretty one. What was she like?’

  ‘Ugh, a little Mistress Peaceweaver. Sunshine, hearts, and flowers. Altogether too much to say for herself, like any Frenchling. You know the cast. Better than anyone, I should think.’

  ‘Flowers … I met the flower girl in Linlithgow.’

  ‘Flower girl?’

  ‘Rowan Allen. She was selling flowers when we came to the palace.’

  ‘Of course,’ said Danforth. The purple heather he had given the dowager blossomed in his mind. ‘The dark lass. What had she to say? Anything of Finnart?’

  ‘Nothing new. He and our master both made enemies at the heresy trials in the town a few years back.’

  ‘Pfft. Making enemies of heretics and their minions is no bad thing,’ said Danforth, swatting his hand at an invisible fly. ‘Anything else?’

  ‘Not really,’ said Martin. Then something lit up his face. ‘Here, she knows her antiquities.’ Danforth cocked an eyebrow, which Martin seemed to take as encouragement. ‘She was speaking of someone Greek, who turned someone into a stag. Or was turned into a stag. It was something like when you speak – I wasn’t truly listen-’

  ‘Actaeon,’ said Danforth. ‘The tale of Actaeon, who came upon Artemis in the forest.’

  ‘Sounds about right. You would likely find her good company. You could bore each other,’ he smiled.

  ‘I have no desire for good company,’ said Danforth. ‘Quite obviously, since I seem to spend such time with you.’

  ‘Very witty, my friend,’ said Martin. ‘Tres drôle, indeed. Here – smell that.’

  ‘What?’ asked Danforth, sniffing at the air. Was poison detectable in the air, he wondered. He should have asked the Italians. Or perhaps not.

  ‘I smell cooking. And it’s noon or thereabouts.’ Danforth looked out the window, judging the sun. Trying to tell the time was a trial without the guiding sound of church bells. It was when they were gone that you missed them. It was like coping with the death of someone close. If only, he felt, he could solve this present crisis, it would go some way to restoring order. To fixing what had become a mad world, a world turned upside down and inside out by the king’s death. And there was something else, just as strong. An overriding desire to bow before the queen dowager and have her gratitude. To stand before the cardinal and have him reach out and bless him, the aged eyes kindling as he thanked him for a job well done. Thanked him for being a faithful and reliable son of the Church. Yes, there was that. Perhaps it was sinful but, he reasoned, less so when it turned to good service. There were other types of dream from that which had plagued King James and been recreated in blood. There were the good dreams that men could work to turn to reality.

  ‘Let us pray his Grace is free soon,’ he murmured. ‘Aye, Martin, I believe I smell victuals. The question is do we dare trust them?’

  ‘I’d rather poisoning than starvation,’ grinned Martin, launching himself out of the hammock.

  11

  To Danforth’s silent disappointment, the dining tables were not set up in the great hall in the eastern range, but in the queen dowager’s outer chamber – the room that had been populated by card-playing women on their first visit. It had been transformed, a long table running its length, with a higher, shorter table to form a T at the far end. He and Martin were seated by Anthony Guthrie near the entrance to the room, well away from the top table. Closer to the royal end were a jumble of Douglas- and Hamilton-coloured suits. With much bumping of elbows the whole company was seated before Mathieu appeared from the inner chamber, a short horn in his hand. He blew a few notes, and then the doors were opened.

  Queen Marie entered, her ladies at her elbows. Everyone rose, waiting to reclaim comfort when she sat on her gilded wooden seat, the stony-faced Madame LeBoeuf at her right hand. Marie nodded for the company to sit and, as they did, a murmur of conversation began, the atmosphere in the room changed suddenly, like air being drained from Martin’s inflated pig’s bladder.

  Directly across from Danforth sat Forrest, the depute of the guard. Danforth chanced occasional glances upwards, to find the man’s steel eyes boring into him. Next to Forrest, Guthrie held court, chattering ceaselessly.

  ‘
… And so the musicians will have a job, yet it’ll please her Grace to have a bit of merry entertainment, you know? What do you think, Mr Forrest?’

  The grizzled head turned to Guthrie. ‘Of what?’

  ‘Of this wee interlude for the queen dowager?’

  ‘Hmph. Women’s games.’

  ‘Och, well I reckon you’d be fancying something a bit more … um … a bit hotter. A Satire of the Three Estates, eh? Well, we’ll invite no more darkness into this place, I’m pleased to say.’

  Danforth’s ears pricked up. The Satire was an anti-clerical play. ‘I’d like,’ said Forrest, ‘something that brought about some good instruction in the hearers. Not some foolishness that draws the mind from true faith.’

  ‘You are a critic of the faith?’ asked Danforth. The man had not struck him as religiously-minded, despite what Guthrie had suggested, but perhaps he was. Of the crooked persuasion. Forrest turned to him, eyes narrowed.

  ‘What’s it to you?’

  Danforth held up his hands, ready to concede. But then he went on. ‘I only ask as a cardinal’s man.’

  ‘Our Forrest is a right Godly man,’ said Guthrie, his voice rich with sarcasm. ‘He’s no time for those of us that like good cheer. None of his friends do.’

  ‘Hold your tongue, Guthrie,’ growled Forrest. Then, under his breath, ‘we have a simple faith. No need for baubles.’ Guthrie mimed covering his mouth. He couldn’t keep it up for long.

  ‘But what’s life without baubles, heh? What about you gentlemen,’ he said. ‘You’re faithful men of the Church. The cardinal wouldn’t have you otherwise.’

  ‘Oh, Danforth is faithful, to be sure,’ said Martin, seated to Danforth’s left. ‘To a fault,’ he added, smiling. ‘You’ll get on well together.’

  ‘You looking forward to the play then, Mr D?’ asked Guthrie.

  ‘What play?’

  ‘Christ, have you fellows been listening at all? The dowager is having a play in the great hall, as soon as. Tomorrow, if she can. Or the day after. A bit of entertainment since the nights are still drawing in.’

  ‘Is that wise?’ asked Martin, turning to Danforth. ‘With everything?’

  ‘That’s for me to say,’ snapped Forrest. ‘I’ll say what’s wise and secure in this place. Not youse.’

  Danforth shrugged. ‘I see no harm in something that might please the ladies. Please all of us, for that matter.’ He liked plays, especially the mystery plays that enacted religious scenes, and the morality interludes that showed virtue triumphing over vice. They were good things, simple. They depicted an unfussy religion that even the muddle-headed multitude could understand. They brought people together in condemning evil and championing good. They might even hold a mirror up to people’s misbehaviour, encouraging them to reform their ways. Diane’s words that morning came back to him. She had said something about bringing people together, about being good. He looked around and spotted her bearing a cup beside Madame LeBeouf, who was, with Queen Marie, laughing at a shaven-headed woman capering about next to the top table.

  The food was brought up by teams of domestic servants belonging to the palace rather than the queen dowager’s shattered household. As they had to bring it all the way from the kitchens in the north-eastern part of the building, most of it was cold by the time it arrived. Danforth and Martin had agreed beforehand to eat only what they saw others eat first, and they occasionally looked left along the room to make sure that the dowager was being equally careful. Danforth met her eye once and was sure she gave a slight nod. He chose to believe so, at any rate. It relaxed him. Gave him a glow of pride, too. The Queen of Scots, dowager though she might be, acknowledging his wisdom and care. Yes, he was certain she had nodded.

  Cold salmon and trout fillets, sauces already congealing, and globules of lard sitting like pearls on the wooden trenchers were placed before them. Danforth picked at the selection, his stomach rumbling, whilst Martin ate even more daintily, occasionally looking up to the queen’s table as though hoping to impress with his courtly manners. Throughout, Guthrie kept up a tumult of conversation. It was a fine feeling, despite all, to be part of dinner in a queen’s presence. Though her royal husband was dead, Danforth kept reminding himself that she was nevertheless the highest woman in the realm, after her infant daughter. And here he was, taking dinner with her. Yes, it even beat eating in the presence of a prince of the church.

  ‘Gibb’s a faithful man, a good man to the queen. You know the horse master. Heh.’ Guthrie leant over the table and waved a hand; further down, nearer to the dowager’s end, the big horse master was drawing laughter from his neighbours. He ignored Guthrie’s salute, pretending not to see it. ‘What he needs are good stables, though. Mr D, you’ve seen the great stables of England? I take it you rode here. Do you favour a great warhorse or a little mare, like old Wolsey?’

  Danforth shook his head, unwilling to be drawn into idle conversation. He was sorely tempted to draw a comparison between his own father, who held his peace during dinner, and Guthrie, but refrained. A chunk of bread gave him an excuse not to engage. ‘Danforth here prefers a sorry old beast,’ offered Martin, drawing a dark look.

  ‘Leave my beast alone.’

  ‘I think it would be best left alone. In a pasture. The sooner you’re quit of that poor old brute the better.’

  ‘I would sooner be quit of you,’ snapped Danforth. Martin chuckled.

  ‘Christ’s body,’ laughed Guthrie. ‘You pair are worse than an old married couple. Heh. Ach, it’s this place. Starting to breed discord in all of us, I reckon. Almost as if someone invited trouble on our heads.’ He gave a surreptitious look towards Forrest. ‘You ken what they say: the battle rages on against the powers of this dark world and against the spiritual forces of evil. We need to increase our faith towards God, not question it.’ Forrest remained impervious, shovelling food grimly.

  ‘Her dowager wants to know if you’re enjoying the palace’s Lenten fare,’ said a voice. Danforth turned to find Mathieu behind him. ‘She recommends to you the claret. It’s from France.’

  ‘Like you, laddie,’ said Martin. ‘Working hard?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Good boy. You’ll get on.’

  ‘Pray give her Grace our thanks,’ said Danforth. ‘Tell her that our search for what ails her goes on. We shall find it.’

  ‘I can help you look, sir,’ said Mathieu. ‘I’d like to help Mr Martin. Whatever you seek, I can help. I know every hidey-hole in this palace. I keep my own things hidden under my bed.’

  ‘Then that’s a hidey-hole no longer,’ smiled Martin. ‘But it is more a man we seek than anything else. What does a young fellow like you need to hide?’

  ‘My books, sir. My book on soldiering.’

  ‘You wish to be a soldier? Me too, when I was a bairn. Scots Guard.’

  ‘Protecting the French king?’ asked Mathieu. ‘That would be a great honour. Could you get me in to that one day, do you think?’

  ‘Well I never actually became one,’ laughed Martin. ‘Penning the lord cardinal’s letters to France, that’s been my calling. That how come I can sit in this fine palace with two queens under the same roof and good salmon on my plate.’

  ‘Oh … well, I will tell her Grace what you say.’ The boy bounded off.

  ‘Well,’ said Martin, ‘bless him for try–’

  ‘Look, look, here comes some good foolery. Look.’ Guthrie pointed a knife towards the queen’s table.

  The shaven-headed fool had ceased her capering and instead squatted down, adopting the manner of a cringing child. She had filled her cheeks with air, her eyes turned piggy. She looked up to her left, as though there were someone next to her, and nodded eagerly. Then she turned to her right, to another invisible person, and performed the same gesture. She repeated this several times. ‘Senat,’ whispered Guthrie none too quietly. ‘The queen’s fool. Christ, she’s the lord protector. She’s Governor Arran. Look, she’s cowering beneath Archie Douglas and his brot
her.’

  Senat waved goodbye to her invisible friends, fawning and prostrating herself, and then her eyes turned foxy. She blew out, and a grin spread across her face. She strutted up and down next to the table, attaining her full height again, her chest puffed out. She picked up a napkin, deftly folded it into a crown, placed it on her head, and began shouting, ‘go do my bidding. I rule all. And Lord protect ye all!’

  A ripple of angry disapproval sounded from the Douglas and Hamilton parties seated close the top table. Danforth could see some hands gripping knives more tightly. But they could do nothing. The fool had license to mock. Taking further advantage of it, she moved away from dowager, who sat with a placid smirk on her face, and began working the room.

  ‘Feed my treasury,’ she barked. ‘For I spend to my glory. I mean, to my realm’s glory. Give me gold, give, and give some more!’ Grudgingly, the courtly members of the dinner table began to thrust coins to be rid of her. She grasped them, stuffing them in a pocket in her dress. She moved her way down the table, on Guthrie and Forrest’s side. ‘Here,’ laughed Guthrie, ‘buy yourself some false hair, you japester.’

  ‘I am your governor,’ piped Senat. ‘Though I’ve still less hair on my bollocks than on my head.’ She moved on to Forrest. ‘You, guardsman. Feed my purse.’

  ‘Get you lost, fool,’ snarled Forrest. Senat gave him a long look, but said nothing, moving on to the next mark, a man Danforth didn’t know. A sudden warmth had overtaken him, creeping up the back of his neck. He hadn’t brought his purse to the table, only his cutlery. Bringing a purse was like bringing a weapon, he thought: frowned on, and something one hoped one wouldn’t need. He grasped at his wine cup, swilling it to wet his throat, hoping that the foolish woman would move on as she did with Forrest. He considered asking Martin if he had brought anything to pay her off, but didn’t want to do so before the whole company.