Not for the first time, Danforth wondered what became of the dead, particularly those brought to their end by violence. The poor souls had no time to be shriven, no time to make heir peace with God. Instead, they must arrive in Purgatory in horror, amazed at their new surroundings. He hoped that the innocent, especially, would be understood, forgiven, welcomed quickly into Heaven. The thought of Mathieu, his oversized tabard flying out behind him, racing up to the clouds brought him back to the cold graveyard.
Had the boy known something? Seen something? That could be the only reason for his being lured to death. The note on his body proved that he was not simply in the wrong place at the wrong time. Unless, of course, it was an old note – but he brushed that potential away. The boy had been attacked in the kitchen after being invited to the kitchen. Still, the questions rang in Danforth’s head as the group began to mill away. Already, he thought, they were turning their minds to their own lives: to what they were going to do with the rest of their day; to what they were going to eat and drink; to what they might do the next day and the next and the next.
Eventually, only Martin and himself were left. Danforth tentatively put a hand on the younger man’s good shoulder. ‘We have seen the lad off,’ he said. ‘We can do no more.’
‘What? No more? We can catch the bastard who did this and rip him open.’
Danforth’s lips curled downwards. He hoped that Martin was speaking only from the passion of the moment. ‘Catch him. Aye, we can catch him. And we have little time. By tonight we must produce something to take before the dowager.’
‘Aye, aye – where do we start? What to we do?’ Martin was hopping about from foot to foot, eyes blazing.
‘I shall go back to the palace. I have some–’ Before he could finish, a tumult of noise sounded from the entrance to the palace. A small wave of men and women in the Douglas colours poured out, heading towards the burgh, the odd horse dotted amongst them.
‘Where are they going?’ asked Martin, peering over Danforth’s shoulder.
‘I cannot say. To the town, by the look of it. It might be worth taking a walk down there, Arnaud. Follow them. Find out where they are heading and why.’
‘What about you?’
‘As I said, I wish to go back into the palace. I have some things I wish to follow up.’
Martin smiled, but there was no humour in it. ‘Being a riddle again, Simon? It’s fine. I trust your mind. Will I get you back up there, or in the burgh?’
‘I cannot be certain yet. It will depend on what I discover. At any rate, I shall see you later.’
They parted, Martin joining the throng of Douglas folk beating a path to the town. Danforth sent a silent thanks to God. He did have something he wished to investigate in the palace, but it was a slim chance. And it was one that Martin, in his present euphoria of grief, might compromise.
Once certain his friend had gone, he took one last look at the grave, already having dirt shovelled onto it, crossed himself, and turned his back on the dead boy.
22
Danforth reeled his way up the turnpike stairs, this time in the northwest tower. As ever, the spiral upwards dizzied him, giving him an impression of what it must be like to be at sea. However, he was not bound for the royal apartments. Instead, he had been directed upwards by a limping Guthrie, who was busy lecturing a servant in the courtyard. All he could make out was ‘Old Nick himself, the very devil, done up in the garb of St Andrew! I’ve said it time and again, the heretics bring devils amongst us! Saw it myself!’ He offered a silent look of sympathy to the servant, tempered with thanks. It did not surprise him to see Guthrie already on his feet; not when there appeared to be so much activity caused by the flight of some of the dowager’s guests.
He found Mathieu’s chamber with ease. Someone had hung a black cloth over the lintel. Ignoring it, he pushed his way in. He was unsure what he expected to find. Some note, hastily scribbled, perhaps. Or more likely nothing.
The little cell was barren save for a hammock and box – it was like a smaller version of Danforth and Martin’s own chamber. Yet, Danforth recalled, the boy had said something about ‘hidey-holes’, about keeping his things under his bed. Danforth inspected the hammock, but there was nothing in or under it. As he ducked to look under, though, he felt the floor under him rock slightly. Edging his foot around it, he felt how loose it was, and, prying, he was able to lift up one of the flat stones. Beneath it was a hollowed-out space, a thin manual on soldiering laid out in it. The manual’s cushion, though, was not hard-packed earth. Danforth drew breath. It was a folded blue cloak.
***
Martin hovered around the posse of Douglases, all of them chattering animatedly, none of them paying him the slightest attention. As he hurried along down the slope to the town, he caught snatches here and there of conversation. ‘Bloody madness’; ‘say nothing’; ‘I told you it was a cursed place, cursed since Flodden’; ‘breathe not a word to anyone outside – don’t want the blame of any of this, let the Hamilton lot suffer it’.
He waited around the market cross. For the first time, he had no thought at all of meeting Marion Muir, by accident or otherwise. Instead, his eyes were trained on what the various Douglases were doing. Some disappeared to reappear with horses, and gradually they drew together in knots, embracing and breaking up. It was clear to him that they were fleeing Linlithgow, palace and town. Something had spooked them. Whether it was the stories of ghouls and demons or the possibility of being implicated in some shady business aimed at the life of Queen Mary, he could not say. He purchased an apple from a street vendor and, as he munched, he saw Cam Hardie peep out of the door of an inn, call for news, and then disappear back inside. Tossing the core into the open sewer channel, he crossed to the inn.
Ignoring the questions of the innkeeper, Martin barrelled up the rickety wooden stairs two at a time and battered on the first door he reached. To his disgust, the priest who had conducted the funeral service opened it, stripped to the waist. A woman’s voice drifted out. ‘Tell them to bugger off.’ Ordinarily, Martin would have been amused, but not today. Before he could exchange a word with the priest, Hardie’s sneering voice reached him from further down the hall. He turned towards it, letting the priest close the door on his shame.
‘Mr Martin. How’s the eye?’ As Martin turned, he added, ‘Oh – I see it’s turned yellow. Well, remind me one day to give your other eye a matching colour.’
‘It’ll be a cold day in hell when you lay hands on me, Hardie. If you want to fight, I’ll fight you, I swear to God. Wound or no wound, I’m in just the mood.’
‘Well I’m not,’ yawned Hardie. ‘You’ll have to wait until next we meet.’
Martin had stepped down the hall, to where Hardie was lounging against the frame. His blonde hair was squashed down by a great feathered hat, and a travelling cloak was draped over his shoulders. ‘Oh? And where are you going?’
Hardie shrugged. ‘Away from this dump. The Douglases,’ he said with a flourish, ‘are moving out. You and the Hamiltons are welcome to this cursed town and that cursed palace. If you lot wish to consort with demons and tangle with sorcery, that’s up to you. It’s not for us. And I tell you this for free – if those Hamiltons up there are double-crossing us, we shall know of it. If that madness in the palace is some, some scheme to slander and dishonour our noble house … well, they’ll be sorry.’
‘So,’ said Martin. ‘You’re fleeing right enough. Cowards.’ His lip curled in a smile. If the two factions of political men were ready to turn on one another through suspicion, that was fine with him. It would please the cardinal too.
Expecting – hoping for – anger, Martin was disappointed when Hardie barked out jagged laughter. ‘Cowards? What have I got to fear? What do any of us have to fear? We’re Douglases, of that ancient and noble House. If I’m threatened, I’ll have twenty men at my back, daggers drawn and blood up. Who’s at your back, Martin? Yon useless English pish-stain?’
‘I can fight my own battles.�
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‘Aye? Aye, looks like it. Don’t forget, I’ve seen you struck down and led away crying like a lassie.’
‘I did not cry,’ said Martin. ‘I … your friend has no honour. He struck me without call, without warning. It was done dishonourably.’
‘Is that so? Let’s see what he thinks of that. Here, Geordie – Martin here is looking for another square go.’ He stepped back, letting the squat Simms fill the doorway.
‘Fuck off,’ he growled. ‘When I’m at myself, that’s when I’ll come back and finish you. You’ll see us again.’ With that, he slammed the door in Martin’s face.
***
Danforth had hidden the blue cloak under his own robe and furtively made it back to his own chamber. There he had stowed it under Martin’s pillow, unsure what to do next. It made no sense. At first, he wondered if Mathieu had somehow been involved, throwing himself into the fire, or even really falling in by accident. Reason intervened. Whoever was wearing the thing had bolted downstairs, past Guthrie, and presumably taken it off en route. He might have hidden it amongst Mathieu’s things at any point afterwards. The boy had made no secret of his hiding place.
Before burying under the pillow, Danforth had felt the thing, stretching it, stroking it. He had considered putting it on to try out the size, but something about it repulsed him. It had been in this that the murderer had slain a child. It might have been in this that he had shot Martin. It might also have been in this that he had butchered Fraser’s corpse.
But had it? The infected man had been in a blue cloak too, sent care of ‘St Andrew’. Was it the same one? No, thought Danforth, kneading his temple. Forrest had stabbed that man through the heart, killing him. Then servants had covered up the corpse and removed it to be slung into the loch or burned. True, he had not seen that done. Yet no one would dive into a loch to strip a diseased corpse or be able to spirit it away before the flames touched it. No one human, anyway. He killed off that thought before it could grow. No, this was a different robe. The murderer must have had more than one. That meant … what did that mean? He reached under the pillow again and ran a finger along the cloth. He had felt similar material before. Recently.
He left the room, going immediately to the fountain to wash his hands. He heard a shrill voice call his name and cursed at the thought of Guthrie getting hold of him. It was almost a pleasure to find Diane saluting him.
She crossed to him, still in the sombre dress she had worn when she accompanied the dowager to the funeral. ‘A sad day,’ she was saying. ‘A truly day.’
‘Aye, mistress. It is that. How does the dowager fare?’
‘Not well, I fear. This news has come near to breaking her, on top of everything else. And now the Douglases are fleeing.’ She lowered her voice. ‘We’re all of us glad to see that rabble gone. Spies, they were, reporting on her Highness to their wicked old masters. Yet it looks bad. They might say anything. That the dowager has lost control of her house. That her daughter must be taken from her by force. She is scared. Bad.’
It was bad. If the dowager was getting to breaking point, she really would have no patience left. Danforth felt the urge to spit at the name Douglas – an action he deplored. Worthless, spying lackies – it made giving service to a master … dishonourable. Ugly. Hitherto he had thought there no higher station than giving loyalty to one’s betters. These men – and women – made a mockery of that. Made a mockery of him, and all he had ever stood for.
He would have to move quickly. He gave Diane a long look, before smiling. It was almost like she had been sent from God. He had remembered where he had felt the material used in the blue cloak before. ‘I wonder, mistress, if you would like to walk into the burgh?’
‘Yes,’ she said, without hesitation. ‘Oui, indeed. I … this place, Mr Danforth. It has become so … I do not know how you say it. I cannot think of a word bad enough.’
‘Haunted.’
‘Worse than that. That little boy, our Mathieu. He was no hazard to anyone. To have made such an end.’
‘It is truly horrible.’ He touched her shoulder lightly and, to his surprise, she hugged him briefly before drawing back.
‘I have said, I try always to look for good in the world. And always I find bad. Will it ever end?’
‘As long as there are good people to fight it, yes. Yes, Mistress Beauterne, I think it will end.’
Together they walked away from the fountain. The sun had broken through the clouds, sending spears of light into the courtyard, turning the yellowed walls and flagstones a glinting gold. Danforth walked with Diane on his arm, his heavy boot-treads slowed to accommodate the lighter step of her slippers.
***
It was the sound of weeping that drew Martin to the house. He didn’t know the source, didn’t know the house, and yet felt compelled, in his present mood, to join it. An elderly couple were leaving a fine-looking half-timbered house in a street leading off the market cross. Each embraced Rowan Allen before stumbling off, clutching handkerchiefs to their eyes. He crossed to her, holding up his good hand.
‘Mistress Allen,’ he said. ‘What news? Are you well?’ Reading the expression on her face, he felt his heart sink. ‘Your father,’ he said.
‘Aye,’ she said, all trace of her usual sardonic humour gone. ‘He’s gone.’
Martin followed her into the house. A short hall opened into a parlour, and her father was laid out on a large side-table, candles surrounding him. Martin tried not to look, but the waxen face drew him irresistibly, the spiderlike hands crossed over his chest seeming to beckon. ‘It happened yesterday,’ said Rowan, tears falling again. ‘When I was at that foolish masque. When I was out making merry, he was dying in his bed. I wasn’t here. I should’ve been here. I wasn’t here.’
Martin took her hands, but didn’t know what to say, other than, ‘I’m sorry.’ As though she were a sleepwalker, she poured him wine and pushed him into a seat. He let her, still at loss. Eventually she began to talk, still weeping: about her father, about all that he had done for her, all that he had given her when her real parents, whoever they were, had cast her out. It felt odd, her discussing the dead man in his presence. Martin recalled his own father’s body, laid out in his mother’s hall, whilst neighbours stopped by to condole. Perhaps, he mused, it had been then that he had developed an aversion towards corpses, a disgust. ‘Maman – my mother – she always says it’s a world to be out of.’ He said when she paused to blow her nose. ‘I don’t think I agree with that.’
‘Me neither.’
‘If you don’t mind my asking, what will you do now?’
‘What will I do now?’ she echoed. ‘What indeed. I’ve no idea. I can’t think about that now.’
‘Do you want to stay in Linlithgow?’
‘No,’ she said immediately.
‘Do you like to travel?’
‘I don’t know,’ she said, looking up into nothing. ‘I haven’t travelled. But I’ve no wish to stay here, not without my parents. So I suppose it doesn’t matter whether I like to travel or not.’
‘Has he … I mean, will you be …’
‘Do you mean have I been left a great fortune? Will I live?’ A trace of her smile reappeared, but there was little humour in it. ‘Aye, I’ve been left enough. I knew this was coming, of course, he’d been so ill for so long. But you … even when you know, you just never expect it will be this day or that day.’
‘I know,’ said Martin. He thought of his own father, who had simply dropped dead whilst riding back from Stirling one day. There had been no warning of that. One day he was there, rosy-cheeked and full of Gallic life and charm, and the next day the entire family simply had to get along without him. ‘It is never an easy thing, losing someone you love.’
‘I did love him,’ said Rowan, her voice catching. ‘I loved both of them. I’m alone in the world now. Can you imagine, Arnaud – I’m near twenty-six and I feel like an orphan child. No one warns you of that.’
‘I’m truly sorry,
mistress.’
‘Call me Rowan, please.’
‘Yes. I’m sorry. But this will pass. I’ve lost my father too. It … each day, each week, you know, it gets easier. You start to be able to joke about them even – the things the might’ve said if they were still around at any time. Remembering the daft things they did. The grief passes. The dolour.’
‘Aye, I know. It did with my ma’. But not tomorrow, or the day after. I don’t even know – I’ve no idea what to do about the funeral or anything. With the mass off still. Who do I talk to?’
Martin was about to say, ‘the parish priest’, but suddenly remembered the lecherous man cavorting with a slattern in the inn. Instead, he said, ‘Mr Danforth and I, we’ll write the cardinal. He’ll be able to do something. He can do anything. Even in prison.’
‘Thank you. Lord, but I’ve bent your ear. It’s just … death is a cruel thing. It helps to talk. As if talking about it takes away its terrors.’
‘Aye,’ said Martin. Then, on impulse, ‘the little boy died. Up at the palace. Did you know Mathieu, the page?’
‘What?’ Rowan leant forward, her hands clutching at the material of her dress. ‘What happened?’
‘It was … I can’t say – an accident.’
‘Another accident,’ she said drily. ‘I see. Mr Martin – Arnaud – why don’t you tell me the truth? Tell me what in God’s name has really been going on in that, that Olympus up there. What are you and Danforth looking for? What have you found?’
Martin smiled at the interest on her face. Perhaps, he thought, it would take her mind off her present troubles. He told her. When he had finished, she tilted her head back and exhaled. ‘Jesus. Jesus. It sounds to me like you are in some very troubled waters. If I were you I would gather my things and go. Get away from it all.’
‘Aye right. Run like cowards, like those Douglas creatures. No. We’ll see it through. We’ll unmask whoever or whatever is working its evil up there. Mr Danforth is a sharp man at these things. He hasn’t failed yet, never lost his head.’
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