Martin lay on his cot, staring up at the ceiling. Although burning with curiosity, he had not waited on Danforth. If his friend did not trust him to share the dowager’s confidences, then to hell with him. He had instead stormed downstairs and back across the courtyard, where a kind of order had been restored. The servants, led by Guthrie, had put down their weapons, and were now chanting doggerel Latin verses about staving off evil. Forrest and his fellow adherents of order ringed the fountain, watching the odd little spectacle moodily. Martin had ignored both groups, slamming the door of his and Danforth’s chambers behind them. He had not bothered to greet the older man when he returned, but rolled over and stared at the wall, only returning to his back when his arm ached.
‘I had no choice, Arnaud.’ Martin ignored him. ‘Yet now I need to ask a favour.’ Still Martin said nothing, hoping to annoy him. ‘We have to return to the dowager’s apartments tonight.’
Unable to hold out, Martin spat, ‘I’m not going anywhere with someone who doesn’t trust me.’
‘Very well, remain here, then.’
‘Oh, you’d like that, would you? Then I will come.’ Martin pounded his pillow, finally turning to Danforth. He had spoken now, and so there was little sense in lapsing back into silence. ‘What are you doing?’
Danforth had scraped open the wooden shutters and was leaning out. For a moment, Danforth thought he was vomiting. Then he stepped back into the room, yanking the shutters closed. He opened and closed them one more time. ‘What are you doing?’ repeated Martin.
‘I am trying to get some air into this room. It reeks of a sickroom.’
‘Oh, does it? I am so sorry. I am so sorry I was shot at and struck in the eye. I’m so sorry I have to rub reeking ointments into a hole in my arm, Mr Danforth.’
‘I forgive you.’ Danforth’s face was without expression. That annoyed Martin even more. ‘Your little friend Mathieu …’
‘You leave him out of this. Aye,’ he said, sitting up and swinging his legs off the cot. ‘You never said anything about him, about a cloak in his room, or lists, either. Making me look like a gawping fish in front of the dowager like that.’
‘There was no time. I only learned of it before meeting you in the burgh. I had no opportunity to speak with you properly before we were drawn into her Highness’ presence.’
‘I still say it’s rotten. You know, Mr Danforth, I thought you’d changed. I thought you had given up being a secretive man, keeping every little thing to yourself. Stewing like a …’ he struggled to finish the simile, and so substituted a proverb. ‘A leopard doesn’t change its spots.’ He smiled savagely at the look of genuine hurt that crept over Danforth’s face, and then felt guilty. ‘Anyway, what is it about Mathieu?’
‘I think he knew his killer. And I think he was slain because he knew something. He knew who had ordered blue cloth.’
‘Well we can’t ask him, the poor little lad.’
‘No,’ agreed Danforth, his lip curling in a grimace. In Paisley, he recalled, a draper had given him critical information. Here it had led in an infuriating circle, like a bad joke. ‘But we can avenge him. I have been thinking,’ said Danforth, his voice turning low, ‘on the nature of stories. We have seen a good many of them brought to … well, I cannot say life. But we have seen them acted out before our eyes since coming into this palace. King James’ dream, Queen Margaret’s poisoning, the other Margaret’s vision, James IV’s warning – all of it and more. But what do stories do?’ Martin shrugged. ‘Really, Arnaud, I’m asking – what do they do? Think even of that play we saw acted.’
Martin, unwilling to be drawn into Danforth’s riddles, mumbled. ‘Dunno. Make us laugh. Cry. Think about ourselves.’
‘Aye, all of that. But they can also bring fear. You saw that rabble out there as well as I did, all driven by fear. Queen Marie herself is now in a great terror – so scared she would send her daughter into the care of that fat boar in England.’
‘Aye. I s’pose.’
‘I think our murderer is a storyteller, Arnaud. A craftsman. This killer is using hoary old bricks, though – constructing a story to bring fear out of the thrice-heated tales of this country’s past.’
‘Why?’
‘I have an idea. But it must be tested. Tonight.’
‘Oh? Is this the great thing between you and the old queen?’
Danforth smiled. Martin didn’t like the look of it. ‘So you’re going to discover the killer tonight?’ In spite of his irritation – justified though he knew it was – his interest was piqued. ‘Who is it, do you think? A Hamilton? The Douglases are gone. Or is it the reformists?’
‘I cannot say.’ Danforth folded his arms over his chest. ‘Tell me, have you ever heard of the eighth Earl of Douglas?’
‘No. I mean, I suppose there was one.’ Riddles again. ‘Why, what is it?’
‘The eighth earl,’ said Danforth, ‘was slain by King James II. Stabbed to death. His brains beaten out with a poleax.’
‘That’s pretty.’
‘Indeed. It’s what happened to the body that interests me. It is one thing that I suspect our murderer does not wish attention drawn to.’ Danforth reached out a hand to help Martin up.
‘What? Are you saying there’s going to be another murder?’ he asked, ignoring the proffered arm and awkwardly shifting himself.
‘No. It may be nothing. It may be everything. That is why I must test my theory. But I will say this, Arnaud. Forget the politics. Forget, for the moment, religion. We have been led a merry dance, I think, around and around the stage. Forget even those poor dead souls, old and new. This whole mess is about one person’s ambition. Tonight they might admit to it, whether willing or not.’
***
It was only a couple of hours later that Martin waited in the inner chamber, his livery brushed, Diane keeping him company. The number of Hamilton retainers, he noticed, had dwindled. Some of them, too, must have decided that the palace was too dangerous a place to be. Occasionally Madame LaBoeuf swept over to him, patting his arm and asking him how he fared, before doing her rounds of the room. The dowager had seemingly gathered the entire household, even Guthrie, without his band of domestic servants. Every eye and ear were alert, the air heavy with the expectation that something was to be announced. Martin sipped at a cup of claret, after waiting to see that the rest of the guests had had their own cups filled from the same vessel.
He felt a little stab at his heart when the door opened and an older page crossed the room, entered the bedchamber, and then emerged to blow on his horn. Out stepped Danforth. Behind him came the dowager, nearly a head taller, with a hand resting on his arm. Immediately the room hushed, people falling to their knees or dropping curtsies.
‘Me thank you for coming hither,’ said Marie, her heavy accent back. ‘All mine guests. Me wish to let it be known … that mine daughter the Queen should be to go to England. It be mine own wish as dearest mother to her that she live in England as the most illustrious Prince Edward’s own betrothed wife. Me must thank Mr Danforth for bringing letters from King Henry.’ Breaths were drawn in around the room as Danforth fell to one knee.
Forgetting himself again, Martin spoke aloud. ‘What the hell, Simon? Letters?’
Danforth stood, brushing down the front of his livery in a fussy little gesture. ‘Aye,’ he said. ‘Martin, I return now to England. Your master is no longer my own.’
‘What the actual–’ began Martin, as realisation dawned. ‘You traitor,’ he snapped. ‘You bloody traitor to his Grace.’
‘I am a faithful man and true to King Henry,’ Danforth added. ‘And I seek nothing more than amity between his Majesty’s realm and this one. That might only be achieved by marriage between the kingdoms. It is to my own regret that I have been unable to convince the lord cardinal of the wisdom of this course. He has remained deaf to my pleas on behalf of my sovereign lord in England. And thus I take my leave of both him and you.’
Danforth turned with a flourish, dropping again to one
knee before taking Marie’s hand and kissing it. ‘Madam,’ he said, ‘I shall take your letters forthwith to his Majesty. He shall then instruct the governor of Scotland, his vassal, to convey your child out of this realm, whose subjects shall soon learn to be loyal and faithful.’
Marie nodded placidly, saying nothing, as Danforth walked backwards, head bowed, towards the outer chamber. Mouth hanging open, Guthrie stood to open it for him, and then he was gone.
Martin and the rest of the company regained their feet. His mind whirred. So this little piece of acting had been Danforth’s plan, then. What had its purpose been? And where was he really going? As Queen Marie returned to his private prison, the assembly of household staff and Hamilton guests broke into excited, confused gabble.
***
Danforth raced downstairs and across the courtyard. The gauntlet had been thrown down. All that remained was to see who picked it up. Gibb was not in the stable – he had, Danforth had been sure, saw the man in the inner chamber. Instead, one of his underlings passed Woebegone’s reins to him and helped him mount. For the hundredth time, he patted his breast to make sure the ring was still present. He smiled at the reassuring hard lump, kicked the stirrup, and trotted out of the main entrance. ‘Farewell,’ he shouted, ‘farewell, you wretched palace. May England’s verdant fields never see such bloodshed.’
He slowed Woebegone down as they processed along the path past St Michael’s. When he reached the stone arch of the outer gait, he pulled in to the side to wait. It had turned cold again, and the occasional star twinkled from behind a shred of cloud. His performance, he thought, had been particularly strong. So had the dowager’s. No one present could doubt that he had been Henry’s man, that he was now claiming responsibility for the dowager’s desire for the infant queen to be brought up in England. It had been a shame that he could not tell Martin, but he had worried that the younger man would insist on some foppish display of his own, overdoing it, like a snarling image of vice in morality play. No, the little scene called for his own, restrained, behaviour.
He wondered how long he would have to wait. Not long, surely. His heart began to race with anticipation. All that remained was this final piece of the puzzle – this final unmasking. He knew, or thought he knew, what face lurked under that damned blue hood, but now was the time to pull it back.
But what if nothing happened? He had not allowed himself to consider that possibility. Then he had announced himself before the household, before the Hamiltons, before the world, to be a double-dealing trickster. He shuddered. It would be possible that the cardinal would let him go, unwilling to keep such a loose cannon in his employ. Had there been any other way, he would have taken it. Time was simply too pressing. The die had to be cast. But what if nothing happened?
The answer came clopping towards him in the form of light hoofbeats. A hunched figure, silhouetted against the lights of the palace, descended towards him. Again he shivered. ‘Mr Danforth,’ a voice whispered into the night. ‘Danforth, are you there? Is that you?’
Danforth shook Woebegone awake and rode him a step or two forward, out of the archway and back towards the palace. He recognised the voice. It was exactly as he had suspected. He chanced another look at the church, thanking God. Now, how to play it.
He cleared his throat, before assuming a tone of disinterested irritation. ‘What kept you?’ he asked. ‘King Henry is not a patient man, and nor am I. It is too cold a night to be lurking in shadows.’ His voice caught in his throat. He wondered if the figure now sitting opposite him noticed it. What Danforth had noticed was the glimmer of metal. The missing wheellock was pointed at him. ‘I think,’ he drawled, ‘that you can put that away. I am quite true in my loyalty to England’s king, Mr Guthrie.’
25
‘You see?’ Slowly, holding up his empty hands, Danforth drew the dowager’s ring out of the breast of his doublet. He held it up. Guthrie took it in one hand and drew it to his eyes, his lips mumbling. ‘It is my pledge, my proof, from King Henry. You see, engraved within are the roses, white and red together. His Majesty bid me use this as proof of loyalty were I ever to meet any Scots who might incline to his service.’
‘Aye, is that so?’ asked Guthrie, stretching to hand the ring back. ‘So you’re truly no cardinal’s man?’
‘Bah! Beaton is finished. Spying on him and his minions is no use to King Henry any longer. Now that the old man is done, I might return to my true master. My loyalty need no longer be cloaked.’
‘Loyalty, eh? So loyal you’d be taking credit for my work?’
‘I assure you,’ said Danforth, his eyes not leaving the gun, ‘that my master has been well informed of your … assiduous … labour in bringing the dowager to see reason. I have sent him secret communications of what has been done here.’
‘What do you mean? How did you know?’
‘I have known all along, sir,’ lied Danforth. Woebegone raised a leg, shifting, and he cursed the old brute. It was almost as if the horse could sense him lying.
‘I haven’t told anyone. I’ve been careful. They all,’ said Guthrie, waving the gun briefly before retraining it on Danforth, ‘think I’m just holy old Mr Guthrie, wedded to the true church and like to talk their ears off.’
‘I give credit to your playing,’ said Danforth. ‘Yet, from the first, it was clear that you were otherwise.’
‘How so?’ Guthrie sounded almost annoyed, and Danforth wondered whether to continue. The man was obviously mad and had killed before. Antagonising him was not a good idea.
‘When first we met, I asked you if you had heard of the tale of Hamilton of Finnart haunting the late king. You said you had not. I thought that odd at the time. That story is as old as the hills and warmed every hearth in Scotland a few years back. Even King Henry knows of it.’
‘Pfft. You didn’t get it from that.’
‘No. Not just that. I counted you as a friend to we English when I understood what had happened to that old fool Fraser.’ Guthrie said nothing, but still he did not lower the gun. Danforth had been hoping the ‘we English’ would have an effect. He went on, ‘At first I could not understand how it had been done. But then I realised that the old fool was not drawn outside the palace. He was drugged and died in his chamber. Drugs stolen from that French physician, I imagine. I heard him ranting about thieves. And you told me, after all, that you shared that chamber with Fraser. Then you forced the corpse out the window and let it roll towards the loch, only going out later to mark him in the manner of the king’s dream. Yet tell me – why him?’
Guthrie chuckled. ‘Aye, I shouldn’t have doubted one of King Henry’s men. You lot brought down More and Fisher – there’s little you can’t devise. Why Fraser? You knew him, did you not? I’ve never known a man take so long to give in to poison. I gave him enough to kill ten men, too, according to the book I was told to look at. You have been busy, sir.’
‘I am used to discovery. Found all sorts in the old monasteries in England, uncovered much,’ said Danforth. That was a risk; he had not been in England when the monasteries fell.
‘Tsk. That was a bad business that, all those great buildings torn down. Still, it gives a man with the skill to build opportunity, all those new grand houses going up in their place. Oh, I picked up more from old Finnart than just how to haunt. Christ, but what a curse it was getting that daft old goat out that window. Had to crawl out after him and push him.’
‘Aye,’ said Danforth, forcing a wry smile. ‘I saw that he had been through the bushes under the window. Some jagged little skelves of wood from those damned shutters had lodged in his clothing too.’
‘And mine, the jaggy little bastards. Well, the job was done, wasn’t it? Shame I couldn’t get the head off. Dunno how the headsmen do it – filthy business. But it worked out in the end. Heh. That stupid French cow up there thought it was a threat to the bairn right enough.’
‘Not enough to bring her to move the child, though.’
‘No. Not with those H
amiltons and Douglases around. More interested in keeping everything quiet, so she was.’
‘And so,’ Danforth went on, ‘you had to put her off sending the child to Stirling.’
‘And Edinburgh, and France. In the end, it was England or death. Ah,’ he added quickly, ‘not that I ever would have harmed the bairn. She was never to be hurt.’
‘Of course not,’ said Danforth. ‘It was all a great game to frighten the dowager enough to send the child southwards. Not west or east or to France, but southwards, to my master’s gentle nursery. Yet … King Henry knew nothing of this plot. Leastways, he mentioned nothing to me, or I might have helped you.’ He could almost feel the earth shift and sway beneath Woebegone’s hooves. Another gamble. But he had to know if Henry VIII had been directing events, sitting like a swollen-bellied spider at the centre of England’s web, whilst his swarming minions did his work.
‘No. No, it was a plot of my own devising. But after his wishes, I fancied.’
‘Indeed, sir. His Majesty will be most pleased at all you have done here.’
‘Aye,’ said Guthrie. ‘You’ll tell King Henry about it, confirm that I’ve done his work? You’ll take me south to meet him, to tell him myself. Christ, I can’t go back up there. I’ve wound up the idiot servants enough to be dismissed.’ Neediness crept into his tone, and Danforth felt like striking him himself. The great killer he had sought, the mastermind, was nothing but a crawling little murderous weasel, trying to ingratiate himself with the island’s most notorious man.
‘I have already written letters informing his Majesty of your work in England’s interests. He is always keen to reward good service. I might recommend you yet for some work on one of his palaces. Your interest in building works was, I assume, not feigned?’
‘No, Danforth, no. You think you can get me that?’
‘I have the king’s ear,’ said Danforth. ‘I feel sure that I can. I would know, though, why did you not make an end of that fool Martin? He stuck by me such that I could never meet privately with you.’
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