Fire & Faith

by Steven Veerapen

  The swell of instruments signalled that the opening dance was reaching its climax and so, as he watched what the other couples were doing out of the corner of his eye, Danforth grasped Rowan lightly around the middle and hoisted her in the air. He could sense Martin struggling likewise with Madame LeBoeuf.

  ‘Thank you, Mr Danforth,’ said Rowan, ‘for the dance.’

  ‘Please, call me Simon.’

  ‘Thank you, Simon,’ she smiled. ‘Now I must go.’

  ‘Go? Where?’

  ‘Home. I wanted one dance. Just one. To be part of everything, no one knowing what – who – I am. Now I must get back to my da’, make sure he fares well.’

  ‘A faithful Antigone.’

  ‘Antig … hopefully not making her end!’ laughed Rowan. And then she was gone, a whirl of white. Only when she had departed did Danforth think to wonder whether or not she might be allowed to leave the palace. He supposed she would, a lone woman who was part of the revels.

  ***

  The play followed, much as Danforth had suspected it would: a bizarre affair starring the spit-boys guised, somewhat badly, as Robin Hood and Little John, outwitting a cowardly Sheriff of Nottingham, played by another servant wearing, Danforth noticed, the colours of the Hamiltons. He capered around, falling and cowering, under the direction of a fourth, who was attired as King John, the padding and false red beard instead suggesting Henry VIII.

  Queen Marie, thought Danforth, was a woman of not a little wit. The murmurings of the men in front of him, though, might have offered some doubt as to her judgement. The vagaries of politics!

  Throughout the performance, Martin kept up a stream of chatter, sometimes to Forrest’s boy, sometimes to no one in particular. ‘See that!’; ‘Behind you!’; ‘Hisssss’; ‘Halloooo!’; ‘Look, here comes the fool!’

  ‘I can do without the chorus, thank you,’ whispered Danforth. There was little quite as irritating as someone who talked throughout a performance.

  ‘Ugh,’ said Martin, flopping back on the bench. ‘I wish they’d decide if it’s a comedy or a romance. I don’t know what this is. We need a little tragedy.’

  Danforth nodded tightly, turning his attention from the stage, where the sheriff’s purse was being cut loose from behind by Robin Hood whilst Little John was talking to him. King John was at the same time spouting verse. It was impossible to follow, so much happening at the same time. ‘Aye,’ said Danforth, speaking over Forrest’s boy, who had fallen asleep. ‘No regard for unity of action or any other.’

  ‘Woah, look there, sir!’ Martin shouted, making Danforth jump. ‘The sheriff gets it!’ On the stage, one of the spit-boys had stabbed the Sheriff of Nottingham. The actor fell to the ground, ruining the effect by shifting to a more comfortable position. ‘Finally we have some tragedy.’

  Danforth chuckled. ‘Aye, Arnaud. In his youth every boy wants a comedy. As he grows he fancies a touch of romance. And then, when he ages, he looks for tragedy.’

  ‘Shhhh,’ said Martin, putting a finger over his lips before laughing. ‘I jest. You and Rowan danced well together. Looked good. What was she saying?’

  ‘Oh, some womanish nonsense about happiness. What did your partner have to say?’

  ‘Ha! That dame. You know what she said? That her husband was away. Alan doesn’t mind what I do,’ he mimicked.

  ‘Shocking,’ said Danforth, a slight smile playing over his lips.

  The play stuttered its way towards its anti-climax, the young players seemingly improvising their lines, the audience shouting throughout for them to speak up. Still, the room seemed to Danforth to be good-natured, the people enjoying themselves. They enjoyed it more so when the performance ended with a group version of a song that seemed comprised entirely of the words, ‘trip and go, hey’ and ‘hey trolly lolly love is jolly’, joining in with the actors. That was the purpose of such entertainments. They relived the pressure on people, took their minds off of their own problems and focussed them elsewhere. Queen Marie had been wise to arrange it.

  The actors retreated to their benches in the back rows of either side of the great hall, the domestic servants already seated there clapping their backs. Thereafter began another series of poetry readings from a number of the Hamilton and Douglas men, finally having their chance to take part in the festivities. One huge bearded man spoke in a high-pitched voice, reciting Dunbar.

  Sweet rose of virtue and of gentleness,

  delightful lily of youthful wantonness,

  richest in bounty and in beauty clear

  and in every virtue that is held most dear,

  except only … that you are merciless.

  Into your garden, today, I followed you;

  there I saw flowers of freshest hue,

  both white and red, delightful to see,

  and wholesome herbs, waving resplendently,

  yet nowhere, one leaf or flower of rue.

  I fear that March with his last arctic blast

  has slain my fair rose of pallid and gentle cast,

  whose piteous death does my heart such pain

  that, if I could, I would compose her roots again,

  so comforting her bowering leaves have been.

  The words of love and beauty had their charmed effect. Danforth noticed immediately that men and women about the hall began to pair off and drift away, from the domestic servants in the back rows to the household staff in the middle and the Hamilton and Douglas notables at the front. The room did not empty immediately, but rather seemed to thin, as couples took advantage of the darkness to leave the great hall or to secrete themselves behind the curtained embrasures.

  ‘Is that it?’ asked Martin. ‘Shouldn’t a dance close the day?’ Before Danforth could reply, the musicians did indeed strike up another tune, and some couples stood to dance. Before they could get into their steps, though, a blazing light filled the doorway of the great hall. Both he and Martin turned to it, shielding their eyes. Danforth had the fleeting impression of a small figure, all alight, waving its arms. Gasps rose from the assembled throats. ‘Squibs?’ asked Martin. ‘Her Highness has squibs? I’ve heard of them, you can’t put them up in–’ Before he could finish, the gasps sounding from nearer the entrance had turned to screams. The entire company jumped to their feet, people standing on the benches, others pushing forward. Danforth chanced a glance towards the dais; Queen Marie was on her feet, trying to see what was happening whilst being hustled out of her private door by some ladies.

  He launched himself upwards, pushing past the sleeping child, who murmured groggily at the commotion, past Martin. On, he pushed past the others in his row: the Master Cook, Marshall; Gibb, the jolly Horse Master. Still the light blazed, rose, was stifled, rose again. Still the screaming went on. At last he reached the doorway, just as the flames were pressed down and out. ‘Jesus Christ,’ he shouted. His words were drowned out. ‘That’s no squib. That’s a man.’

  He pushed his way through the ring of people encircling the figure. Some had removed their cloaks and used them to smother the flames, stamping and kicking. ‘Is it dead?’ a woman was shrieking. ‘Becalm yourself, Bess, there’s no fire now!’ said her companion.

  Reaching down, Danforth plucked at a singed cloak, pulling it up and casting it away. He squinted. At that moment someone opened curtains. Light spilled into the great hall. He found himself looking at a charred body, the skin burnt red and black. It was a small person. The remains of livery stood out, not totally burned away. It was a royal tabard, made for a page. It was Mathieu.

  20

  Martin was crouched on the floor, squeezing the boy’s hand. ‘Fetch someone,’ he was screaming up at Danforth, at the whole assembled group. ‘I don’t care, get the fucking physician!’

  ‘He’s gone,’ whispered Danforth, getting down on one knee himself. ‘He’s gone.’ He cast one last look at the dead boy and then crossed himself, standing back up.

  ‘Stay here, all of you,’ he cried out into the hall. ‘None leav
e.’ A shocked muttering started up, and Danforth looked around at the ocean of faces. He turned his back on them, stepped away from Martin and Mathieu, and out into the short hall. It was clear. He crossed it and entered the kitchen. Inside, pandemonium reigned. The fire still blazed, the little room its usual furnace. His eyes followed the carnage as he attempted to work out what had happened. Some silver trays lay on the floor, comfits spilling jam and wine goblets leaving pools of claret. In the midst of them was a short knife. He chanced a look over at the wall cabinet, filled but for one. He leant to one of the claret puddles and dipped a finger, lifting it to his nostril. The sharp sting of metal. Mathieu, it appeared, had been stabbed, the force of the blow used to push him into the great open fire, no spit set up to block his path. Then he had staggered, aflame, out of the room and into the great hall, knocking at things as he went.

  What monster could have done this?

  ‘Mr Danforth, whit’s it a’ aboot?’ barked a rough voice. He turned, to see the bulk of the cook, Marshall, filling the doorway.

  ‘I said no one leave,’ he barked, his voice hoarse. Marshall simply held up his hands.

  ‘Someone is away to fetch guards.’

  ‘Where were the guards?’ rasped Danforth. But he knew. They were stationed around the queen and outside the palace. Stopping anyone getting in or out. If they were doing their jobs properly, that meant that the murderer walked amongst them. He was in the place when the play was being performed.

  ‘Here, whit’s this?’

  ‘What?’

  Marshall had come into the room and was staring down at the scarred wooden table. ‘Something,’ he shrugged. ‘I didnae write this.’

  Danforth turned and joined him. Part of the table was sheeted with a fine layer of flour. Into it, someone had traced the words, ‘REMEMBER JANET GLAMIS SO END THE STEWART MURTHERERS ED’BURGH 1537’. Danforth shivered. Again, the murderer had left them with a note. Janet Douglas, Lady Glamis, had been burned to death by James V on the esplanade of Edinburgh Castle in 1537. She had been accused of witchcraft, but it had always been whispered that she had been a victim of the king’s hatred of the Douglas clan. She was sister to the Douglas brothers who were now in the pay of King Henry, who were even now pulling the string’s of the lord protector.

  Danforth committed the message to memory and then wiped it away with one arm. ‘Why did ye do that?’ asked the cook. ‘The depute will–’

  ‘Say nothing of this,’ said Danforth. ‘The Douglas men out there might make trouble if it reaches their ears. If they think they are accused of some act of vengeance. Forget it.’ Marshall gave him a doubtful look but rubbed his bald head and shrugged. Danforth stepped past him, intending to go back into the great hall, to wrench Martin away from the corpse of his young friend. His path was stopped by Diane, her face flushed.

  ‘What are you doing out here?’ he snapped.

  ‘Men came down,’ she panted. ‘Saying someone had been in an accident.’

  ‘Aye?’

  ‘But … but … Mr Guthrie … the dowager’s usher …’

  ‘Spit it out, woman!’

  ‘I think he’s dead! Slain!’

  Danforth put his head in his hands. A tide of weariness swept over him, sudden and strong. The weight of it pulled him down. The whole place was insane. The whole country. Too much was happening too quickly, and he felt his head swimming as he tried to make sense of it. ‘What happened?’

  ‘I don’t know. He was pushed down the stairs, I think. Lying at the bottom. Some men were tending him as I came up.’

  ‘And why were you downstairs?’

  ‘I was taken down by a Douglas brute,’ she cried. ‘I didn’t want to, but he dragged me. After the play. I am just after slapping his face and running off.’

  ‘I … see. Go inside, mistress.’ Danforth took her shoulders and steered her into the great hall. ‘Don’t look. The dowager’s page has had an accident, young Mathieu. I fear … I fear he is dead.’ Danforth felt the word catch in his throat, his eyes pricking. There had been too much death, but somehow it had all been abstract. Fraser, the infected man, even the attempt on Martin’s life. This, though, was an affront, a monstrous abomination.

  Colour had fled Diane’s face and she stiffened under his grasp, entering the great hall ahead of him like a sleepwalker. Danforth released her into the room, and took up Martin, who was still hunched over the dead boy, now thankfully covered. He led him outside and turned to him. ‘Be strong, Arnaud. Get the little Forrest boy tended to, have some woman look after him.’ Tears had left twin furrow down the younger man’s face, but when he spoke his voice was firm. ‘I’m going to kill him,’ he said. ‘The hell with it, Simon. I’m going to kill the bastard myself.’

  ***

  They cleared the great hall with difficulty but were eventually left alone with the boy’s corpse. Danforth was intent on examining the body, but before doing so, he bid Martin wait outside for him, ostensibly to stop anyone from interrupting. His friend did so without objection.

  The smell of burning flesh had mingled with the perfume in the air, souring it. The sudden silence in the great space was unsettling. Around the stage and the benches, dropped comfits and cakes splattered the rushes, and every movement he made echoed. He removed the white sheet from the lumpen form and immediately closed his eyes, steeling himself to look again.

  All of the exposed skin was blistered and crackled. Most of the boy’s hair had been blackened, his little cap fusing to it. Yet, if what it looked like in the kitchen were true, he should not have died so quickly. Danforth rolled up one of Mathieu’s sleeves. It was still warm. The skin underneath it was still white – whiter even than usual. He lifted the front of the tabard, stiff from the heat but tarry. Underneath, a thin cut stood out on the chalky skin. The paleness, knew, was what sometimes came over the body during extreme moments of shock. The pupils of his eyes, startlingly blue in the craterous expanse of ravaged flesh, told the same story.

  Danforth crossed himself – a thank you to God. Mathieu had not died the agonising death of burning. Rather, the short blow to his stomach and the shock of the sudden immolation had been too much for him. As he had staggered from the room, bleeding from the gut, his clothing and exposed skin torched, his little body had shut down. Still, though it was a mercy, the terror in those few minutes must have been unimaginable. Danforth thought of Hercules, burning on his pyre. Of Janet Douglas, whom he had been commanded to think about. Of the Forrest man who might have been kin to the depute of the guard. All must have felt the intense heat of the flames as it shrivelled their skin. None had been granted a swift exit, a punctured gut or the blessing of sudden shock.

  Who could do this to a child?

  Danforth felt around the boy’s clothing, inside it, searching for pockets. His fingers closed on a piece of paper. Inhaling sharply – and then regretting it – he withdrew it. It had escaped unscathed, and he held it up.

  Mathieu, I have a book on soldiery but it is stolen from the library and must be our secret meet me in the kitchen alone and I will give you the said book make sure you are not seen.

  The lopsided script was identical to that written on the letter to Kerr. There was no signature. Danforth put the note in his own pocket. So, the boy had been lured to his death. It was no opportunistic killing, no selection based on bad luck, but a carefully-laid plan. But why the boy? What had he known? He reached again into the tabard, feeling a little lump. His heart leapt, but as he pulled it out, he realised it was only the little thistle badge Martin’s mother had given the boy as a present. On impulse, he took the child’s hand and squeezed it. A single tear rolled down his cheek and he blinked it away. It was foolish. He had seen death enough to know that tears solved nothing. He had barely known Mathieu. The boy was now speeded towards eternal life in a world free of sin. He covered him over again and stood up. Before leaving, he cast one last look at the great hall, from the abandoned stage and vanished audience to the rafters. Revels ove
r indeed, he thought, before turning his back on the room to join Martin.

  ‘What is it?’ he asked as soon as Danforth closed the door. ‘What did you see?’

  ‘The boy did not suffer as he might have done. The end, when it came, was swift. God took him in His arms without … without the thing being prolonged. Yet … our killer took no chances. The boy was struck in the belly, a blow sure to kill. The fire … it … it was for display. Again.’

  ‘Who did it?’

  Danforth took a long look at Martin’s face. A film of sweat glistened on his brow. His left eye was twitching, his jaw clenching and unclenching. ‘That I cannot yet say.’

  ‘But you will? I mean, don’t you have – I don’t know – some list of people who might be murderers? Some list of people who might have done this?’ Martin’s hands clutched at the jewelled buttons on his doublet. ‘You must!’ he spat, almost accusingly. ‘You must have something, goddammit!’

  ‘Such a list would perforce include every person in this place,’ said Danforth, trying to keep his tone even. His friend, it was clear, was agitated beyond reason. Yet that did not excuse him. He himself had been the one to handle the corpse, to look upon it for evidence. The younger man’s wild-eyed impatience, his lack of feeling, was pure selfishness. Again, Danforth had the odd feeling that he was viewed by others as a cold fish.

  ‘Did you discover anything?’ hissed Martin.

  ‘Only that the boy died without pain, after the first shock.’

  ‘Whoever gave him that first shock, Simon – I’m going to flay them alive. I’ve going to rip out their fingernails with red hot pincers.’

  ‘Peace, now, Arnaud. We will find him.’ Without speaking further, he passed over the thistle badge. It caught the light of the passage briefly before Martin gripped it, shoving it deep into his own pocket.