The Royal Burgh Page 15

  ‘Christ, it’s you two bloody pests come again. What d’ye want with us? If you had any reason to bring trouble on our heads, you’d have done it,’ said McGuire. Danforth detected this time a trace of fear, all bumptiousness gone. Martin smiled at it.

  ‘I wish to know forthwith,’ said Danforth, ‘why you and your wench lied to me yesterday. “No, Sir”,’ he mimicked, ‘“we have never seen that before in our lives”. Lies! Why did you lie to me about this book?’ Again Danforth pulled it from his cloak, brandishing it before them.

  ‘How, how do you know it to be a lie?’

  ‘You are not expert in the art. Too stupid, you both are. How do you know this odious thing?’

  ‘How dare you speak to my wife like that in her home,’ spat McGuire.

  ‘I speak according to your degree,’ said Danforth. ‘Tell me what you know.’

  Marjorie Sneddon stepped forward. ‘It’s no matter, James. We’ve nothing to hide. These wee wasters have nothing against us. They’re no’ even burgesses.’ McGuire looked at her, a plaintive gleam in his eye. ‘But Marge – he might not like it,’ he hissed.

  ‘I’ll have a care,’ she said. McGuire bit the inside of his cheek, looking away into the gloom.

  ‘Will our speaking have us quit of you?’ asked Sneddon.

  ‘It may. It rather depends on your words.’

  ‘Very well. Damned troublesome men. I’ll admit I know this book, or one very like it. Let’s have a look at it.’ Danforth held it before her face, ignoring her outstretched hand. ‘Aye, I’d warrant it’s the same book. Very good at stirring up the passions, eh?’ Her tongue flecked her lips.

  ‘Where did you see it?’

  ‘Here, sir. It belongs to this house. In point of fact, it’s our property, and I’d have it returned, or else you’re the criminal here.’ Danforth snatched the book back into his cloak. ‘Grown fond of it, aye?’

  ‘Hold your tongue and tell me of this book’s story.’

  ‘I can hardly do both, now, can I?’

  ‘You tell him, Marge,’ said McGuire, his crooked smile making an appearance.

  ‘Tell me, you loathsome toad, your knowledge of this book.’

  ‘Aye, go forth, woman,’ said Martin, raising his voice. The noise had an effect, though not the one he seemed to be expecting. Behind Sneddon, two doors opened, neither that which usually protected John McKenzie. First Louisa’s face appeared, blanched at the sight of Martin, and then disappeared again behind her door. He mouthed her name but got no response. Then the closer door opened, and the young ostler from the adjacent tavern stuck out his head, gave a sour look, and then slammed shut the door. A flash of horror coursed through Danforth and Martin. The place was not only used for the procurement of women, but young boys. Neither had time to linger on the thought; Sneddon was still barking.

  ‘The book was taken from this house, against the rule of law.’

  ‘Hark on the creature’s legalities,’ said Danforth. ‘What fellow conveyed it from here?’ He hoped he did not get the answer that had lurked in the back of his mind since the previous visit.

  ‘No fellow, you ass, but a woman, no different to the other lasses or lads who work in this place. A worthless little whore, sir, took our book, many years since.’

  Danforth fell silent. His heart had begun racing when he entered the stew, and he wanted to let it resume its normal pace. ‘Well,’ continued Marjorie Sneddon. ‘There’s your answer, like it or no’.’

  ‘What an answer,’ said Martin.

  ‘Who was this girl? When was this theft?’ Sneddon put a hand on her hip, playing again the aggrieved hostess troubled by awkward and ungrateful guests.

  ‘Her name escapes me.’

  ‘And me,’ added McGuire. He seemed to have been cowed by a real altercation, the dominance he affected melted away.

  ‘I think it does not.’ Grudgingly, and with exaggerated gestures, Danforth produced a coin and handed it to her. She grasped it, holding it up beneath a wall sconce to examine its worth. It was the coin he had found in Madeleine Furay’s bedchamber.

  ‘What’s this, some counterfeit?’

  ‘Ho! We’ll have none of those tricks here,’ said McGuire. Sneddon pushed it against his chest, and he wrested it from her, replacing it in his cloak and giving her a real one.

  ‘My error.’ She judged the new coin, found it to her satisfaction, and place it in her bosom. ‘Now, pray tell us the name of this lost whore.’

  ‘Ferguson, as I recall. Margaret Ferguson. We called her Madge, though she hated it.’

  ‘When did this girl … when did she live here?’

  ‘Oh, a long time back. Before the old king married the French girl.’

  ‘Queen Marie?’

  ‘No, the first one. The one that died when Scotland’s weather touched her.’

  Danforth and Martin looked at one another, realisation dawning. Before selecting Marie de Guise as his queen, King James had first married a sister of the French king. The girl had been delicate, a sweet and unhealthy little thing, possessed of all the weak pallor of fashionable beauty. Only weeks after her arrival in Scotland, she had caught some ague and died. Her name had been Madeleine – Queen Madeleine of Scotland.

  ‘And this girl, this Madge, she stole your book?’

  ‘Indeed. Our damned finest book – the most instructive.’

  ‘And where did she go?’

  ‘From the burgh,’ said Sneddon, but she was unable to resist a glance at her husband, who had paled. ‘We do not know. Gone is gone. She was getting long in the tooth anyway, the bitch.’

  ‘Of what nature was this girl?’

  ‘She wasn’t right, sir. Starting as young as she did’ll do that to some lassies. She thought herself better than the rest, though – thought that she was going to be some great courtesan to the king himself. Well, if she did, she’d be at a hard pass now, with his Grace entombed.’

  ‘And so you maintain,’ said Danforth, ‘that you have no notion of what became of Madge?’

  ‘No. I’ve said that already. Believe or disbelieve as you like. Doesn’t bother me.’

  ‘Then I think we have no further need of your company.’

  ‘That’s welcome news. Tatty-bye, then.’

  ‘Wait,’ said Martin. ‘There’s more I would know.’ Danforth tensed, expecting some questions about the young whore, some pleas for her freedom. ‘Does a man named Walter Furay ever spend nights in this place?’

  ‘I don’t ken the name,’ said Sneddon, her face and voice expressionless. Danforth peered hard, but could see no flinch, hear no momentary pause.

  ‘If that name’s unknown to you, what of Andrew Boyle?’

  ‘Men come and go without leaving their names,’ croaked McGuire, making them all turn. ‘Every man knows every man in the wynd, though it might dangerous to admit it.’ Before he could say more, Sneddon silenced him with a warning look.

  ‘That’s the all of it,’ she said, not turning from her husband. ‘And may we have our book?’

  ‘Indeed you may not. Creatures like you have no rights.’ Danforth turned on his heel and strode past Martin, throwing the door wide and stepping outside. Martin cast one last look down the passage, his gaze fixed on the room from which Louisa had poked her head, but beyond Sneddon, there was nothing but guttering lights. He dipped his cap at Marjorie Sneddon, giving her a grin, and then turned to follow his friend.

  ‘Heavens above, but the evil vapours in that wicked place,’ snorted Danforth. ‘Did you mark that, Arnaud, a boy corrupted into that evil office?’

  ‘I saw. I’ve heard of that kind of thing, but never let my mind dwell on it. Yet I can’t blame the imp, but rather the fellows who keep such a trade alive.’

  ‘Both are to blame.’ Danforth began clambering down the snow-blown steps, one hand against the wall. ‘Why must everything in Stirling involve rising upstairs only to fall back down to the muck?’ His mind was racing ahead. When they reached the street, he paused.
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  ‘And so the mystery of the book is solved.’

  ‘Madeleine Furay, a young whore. It’s small wonder she wished to rise above that station, and let the world know of it. I wonder if the husband knew about it.’

  ‘I think he must have.’

  ‘It would explain why he spurned her bed, at any rate. We have to find him.’

  ‘I did have it in mind to do so.’

  Martin exhaled slowly. ‘But a whore in my mother’s house. She’d die for the shame of it. She can’t know of this, Simon. She must never be told.’

  Danforth gave Martin a serious look. Alison Geddes, he thought, was made of sterner stuff. ‘Indeed, Arnaud, we shall keep this to ourselves.’

  ‘But someone else knew of it.’ Martin’s face lit up with the glow of sudden understanding. ‘Yes, Simon, that’s it! Don’t you see? Madeleine Furay must have thought to leave such a vile life behind her, to have risen above it. Yet someone recognised her from her former life. Someone who had known Madge Ferguson. It’d be a simple matter for them to demand money from the lady – you know, for their silence.’

  ‘You think that is the solution to it?’

  ‘I’d wager a brass ducat on it. Her appointment was thus with the fellow – or the woman – who knew of her past. She tried to buy their silence with false coins and was slain for her temerity. The killer may not have left coin or book. Both were hers.’

  Danforth looked up at the sky. The quality of the day’s light had changed after the sun’s false promises, turning a misty violet-grey. Frost glittered softly in the air, like diamond dust.

  He could almost see it: Madeleine Furay attempting to pass off counterfeit money as the real thing, and her blackmailer exploding in fury. He could see her struggling like a cat as he pounced on her and pinned her, the thick carpet of her bedchamber rising up behind her dark hair, her eyes flashing, her fists flailing as she choked and gasped for air. But the attacker was faceless, indistinct, a featureless shadow man. He shook his head to clear the image.

  ‘Yet I can’t think why Mistress Furay would have taken that wretched book from that place,’ said Martin, one hand rising to scratch the back of his head.

  ‘I can. Defiance. I saw it painted on her face even in death.’

  ‘Might it be that those villains up there realised who Madeline Furay was and killed her for her thievery?’

  ‘Of a book? I cannot see it. Those stupid dolts would likely have robbed the place blind after such a crime, though I own that it is hardly beneath them. It is possible.’ Danforth’s mind was whirling chaotically. He needed time alone, to sort through things, to step back from what he knew and stare at it from a distance.

  Martin tilted back his head and blew out a whistle. ‘I confess I can scarcely believe it still. That old woman having been a young whore.’

  ‘Everyone has a past,’ echoed Danforth. ‘Each man and woman has some experience, something in their history they wish to conceal. I will grant you, of course, that I have never heard the like of this. It is monstrous strange. I had thought the lady … I had thought her purer, and yet she is damned, poor wench.’

  ‘What of forgiveness, Simon? She might have repented of her hard youth. I know I would. She might have confessed it all and received absolution. Remember the priest.’

  He fixed Martin with another look, this time gentle. ‘Arnaud, I marked your face when you saw that young lass, the little whore.’

  ‘Louisa.’

  ‘Yes. I saw pity there. No, do no speak – I don’t condemn you for it – far from it. Yet I caution you not to think of that girl in any chivalric way. You are not a hero made to save her. You could never marry with one such as she.’

  ‘‘sake, Simon, I’m not the fool you think me,’ said Martin, pursing his lips. ‘Marry with a whore? It’s your mind that’s gone soft. But I might still have a care for her, for charity’s sake. Come, let’s get away from here. Before this ghostly crime king gets us.’ Martin began to stalk off.

  Danforth looked at the empty stable of Sharp’s tavern, thinking of the boy who made so little from stabling horses in a cheap tavern that he had turned to whoredom. As they began to follow the smell of cooking that drifted from the market cross, Mr Sharp opened the door of his drinking den, expelling a swearing old man whom he had grasped by the collar of his coat.

  Sharp eyed Danforth and Martin with distaste, then seemed to remember that they were men of some importance. ‘What news, gentlemen? I trust you’ve no more desire to begin brawling in my house?’

  ‘No, Mr Sharp,’ said Danforth, stepping carefully around the shivering, quailing old drunk. ‘Have you seen that strange fellow again? The one who called himself Sir Andrew Boyle?’

  ‘No, sir. The likes of him lay low after trouble. He’ll like as not avoid this place, if he knows what’s good for him.’

  ‘Very good. If it’s no trouble, I wish to have any news of him carried to the baillies or to myself or Mr Martin here.’

  ‘No, sir.’ Sharp’s tone was inflexible. Danforth kicked away at grizzled old hands that reached for the hem of his cloak. The drunk’s whimpers had turned to pathetic mewls as he begged for money to buy something to keep out the cold.

  ‘What “no”, sir?’

  ‘I’ll have no traffic with the baillies. I’m sorry, but that’s that.’

  ‘Why not? This fellow is a criminal.’

  ‘Mr …?’

  ‘Danforth.’

  ‘Mr Danforth,’ said Sharp, tugging at his beard. ‘If I went crying to the law against even a shit-hawk like that animal, my credit amongst the people I service would be mud. It’s understood that the baillies and the provost don’t act against the people here, and a tavern keeper who sells fellows to them might as well choke the life from himself. It’s a bad business. We don’t meddle with them and they don’t meddle with us. I’m too old to risk my neck from turning my patrons against me. And if they didn’t get me … well, there’s someone who would.’

  Danforth drew himself up, sputtering angrily, but he could think of nothing to say. Sharp only looked back at him with genial brown eyes, apologetic but determined. ‘Then I have nothing more to say to you, sir, save that you ought to have a care for the creatures you serve. Your credit amongst such a company is mud already.’ He shook his leg once more at the flailing man on the floor, cursing him for ruining his little speech. Order and honour amongst disorderly ruffians – he could scarcely credit the absurdity of it. The people of the wynd had almost begun to ape a real community.

  As he sailed off, Martin sighed and dropped a penny in the mud by the drunk.

  13

  Together Danforth and Martin returned to the Hiegait and its market, crunching and sliding through the snow. The cross had undergone a change since they had left it. It carried the atmosphere of a market day past its best, enthusiasm dampened, the best items gone. People stood around listlessly, snatches of their conversation puffing out and drifting upwards in visible clouds.

  ‘The days are getting longer again, no two ways about it.’

  ‘They say the dowager wishes to be back in yon place above.’

  ‘Aye, well, the old king done it up that nice for her and the bairn.’

  ‘So he did, aye; when the light catches it up there it’s a right jewel.’

  ‘The light – it’s fading. Christ, let’s get indoors before it’s dark.’

  Martin and Danforth retrieved the horses. They were unharmed by their hitching posts, some children pawing at them. Both in tow, the pair skirted the dregs of the crowd – the canny elderly and other desperate people now enjoying goods at discounted prices. ‘Time’s drawing on,’ said Martin. ‘I swear I might eat again.’

  ‘I share your feeling, Arnaud. I had quite forgotten that a surfeit of wine and ale cuts the throat without warning the belly.’

  ‘Shall we return to the house? Although I can’t see how I might look my mother straight in the eye, knowing that her proud friend hid such a dark past.’


  Danforth considered, hunger and curiosity duelling. ‘We might wait a moment yet, sir. Supper will keep.’

  ‘What would you have us do now? Speak to Mr Furay?’

  ‘Are you turned soothsayer, Arnaud, to guess at my intent?’

  ‘I think rather that we both wish to know what the man knew, and how he came by it. Ah, sorry, Coureur, mon cher ami. You must be tied down again a moment longer. Tu dois être patient!’ Coureur snorted.

  ‘I feel the same, cur,’ said Danforth, smiling as he re-tied Woebegone to the hitching post. ‘I thought that we have lately had a reprieve from your French.’

  ‘I’ve had no cause to keep it sharp.’ At that, both their faces fell.

  They crossed the Hiegait in the direction of the Furay house, Danforth quailing inwardly at the prospect of another flight. Martin sprung up it whilst Danforth trod heavily, using one hand this time not as a support, but to propel himself. By the time he reached the front door, Martin had already rapped, and the steward, Taylor, was opening it.

  The wide-eyed, gaunt young man looked at the guests for some time, as though unsure whether to invite them in or send them on their way. ‘It’s cold, sir, and we would have words with your master,’ said Martin. ‘Don’t stand there like a hooked herring – go and announce our presence.’ Still Taylor gawped. ‘Go!’ He went.

  Martin pushed the door open himself, and he and Danforth strode into the hall. Both noticed immediately that it had changed considerably in the short time since their last visit. The fringed cloths and silks that dotted the surfaces had been stripped away; the cushions were gone; the entire room had been reduced to the barest essentials. They were still looking around when Furay’s cold voice caught their attention.

  ‘You fellows are come tae interrogate me again?’ Furay took the stairs down from the bedchamber. ‘I telt you I’ll speak with no man but the baillies. You’ve no authority over me.’ He reached the bottom and stood before them, a hand on his hip but his thin face drawn and fearful.

  ‘Peace, Mr Furay. We do not wish to harass you.’