The Green Man

Ten

A torrent of words followed, only a few of which I understood, but I could tell from Albany’s face that something serious — or, at least, something which touched him nearly — had happened. As the squire finished speaking, the duke fired a number of rapid questions at him, using the same Scots tongue as his servitor, and, eventually, when they had been answered, he lay back against his pillows, biting his thumb.

He reverted to English. ‘He’s in the castle dungeons, you say?’ Donald nodded. ‘And likely to be brought to trial?’ Another nod. ‘How did you learn this?’

‘From one of the lay brothers here. It’s common knowledge.’ The squire, taking his cue from his master, also lapsed into language I was able to comprehend.

‘Do you know any details of the murder? Does Master Sinclair protest his innocence?’

The squire shook his head. ‘No. Quite the contrary. Apparently he admits openly to the crime, but claims it was done in self-defence.’

Albany drew in his breath.

‘Let me understand this properly,’ he said, his fingers plucking restlessly at the hem of the sheet. ‘Rab Sinclair confesses to stabbing his wife — his unarmed wife — but says it was done in self-defence? This informant of yours, this lay brother, is sure of his facts?’

‘He swears to it. It only happened the day before yesterday, on Monday afternoon. Master Sinclair made no effort to escape and was arrested almost at once with the knife still in his hand.’

The duke swung his legs out of bed and demanded his bed-gown.

‘I must see my Cousin Gloucester,’ he said. ‘I must find out if my uncles and the Council mean to open negotiations with us or whether they intend to make us lay siege to the city. If the latter, it might be weeks before we are inside the walls, and by then Rab could well have been hanged.’

He hunched himself into the furred velvet gown that Donald fetched for him and disappeared through the bedchamber door. The squire made no move to follow him, so I seized my opportunity to ask questions in my turn. Whether or not I would receive any answers was another matter.

‘I’ve gathered the gist of the story,’ I said. ‘But who is this Master Sinclair?’

Donald looked round at me in surprise, as though he had forgotten my existence, or, more likely, been unaware of it so anxious had he been to impart his information to Albany.

‘Oh, it’s you, is it? Of course! I should have thought. You’re still guarding His Grace.’

The words could have had a sting to them, but somehow they didn’t. They were uttered in a flat, dry tone that was almost one of indifference.

‘Yes, I’m still here,’ I snapped back, ‘although what good I’m doing continues to be a mystery to me. I’m hoping that once my lord and the rest of you are safely inside the city, I shall be allowed to return to my home. Now that King James is a prisoner of his nobles, surely there can be no impediment to the duke assuming the crown?’

The squire laughed. ‘I wouldn’t be too certain of that, chapman. No Scot worth his salt is going to let himself be manipulated, or have his king chosen for him by a Sassenach. Your countrymen have tried it before, several times during the course of the centuries, and, eventually, have always been worsted at their own game. No; if anything, I would guess that my lord’s chances of the crown are slimmer now than they would have been had King James and his army been beaten fairly and squarely in battle.’

‘Then-’

‘Oh, have no fear! His Grace will take his own measures to ensure his coronation.’ And again, Donald Seton laughed.

‘What are they?’ I demanded.

The squire raised his eyebrows. ‘Do you really think he confides in me?’

I had to admit to myself that it seemed unlikely, but the man had spoken with such authority that my suspicions were aroused. Moreover, his words echoed something that Albany himself had once said to me. But I decided to let the matter drop, knowing that even if I pursued it, I should get no satisfaction. I returned instead to my original question.

‘Who is this Master Sinclair who is in the castle dungeons on a charge of murdering his wife?’

My companion hesitated for a second, then shrugged.

‘No reason why you shouldn’t be told, I suppose. Master Sinclair is a close friend of the duke and was one of my lord’s most faithful servants before he — my lord, that is — was forced to flee the country after the murder of my former master.’

‘The Earl of Mar?’ I queried, and he nodded. ‘Then why,’ I went on, ‘did this most faithful servant not join you, Davey and the others when you escaped to France to offer your services to my lord Albany?’

Donald snorted. ‘What a damnably curious, long-nosed fellow you are.’

‘So people tell me,’ I answered coolly. ‘Nevertheless, I should like an answer.’

The squire hunched a shoulder. ‘Well, for one thing, he had no notice of our intention. We kept that a secret between the five of us. We had no wish to be arrested and executed on a charge of high treason or, more likely, clapped in the dungeons of Craigmillar Castle and murdered like poor Mar. And for another thing, Master Sinclair is — or rather was — a married man who doted on his young wife. I doubt very much he’d have left her, even for my lord’s sake.’

‘And yet now he’s killed her without, it would seem, any provocation on her part?’

The squire frowned. ‘According to my source of information-’

‘The lay brother.’

‘The lay brother, yes. According to him, Master Sinclair is pleading self-defence.’

‘Strange …’ A thought occurred to me. ‘Is this man the one my lord was referring to when speaking to Earl Rivers yesterday? The one whose distant kinsman built the chapel at … oh, I forget the name.’

‘Roslin. Yes, this is the man.’ Donald’s tone was suddenly curt, as though he had had enough of my questioning, and he made for the bedchamber door, no doubt feeling that only by his absence could he stem the flow of my insatiable curiosity.

And there is no doubt, either, that he was right. Unfortunately for him, he nearly collided with Albany in the doorway as the duke came back into the room, an expression of dissatisfaction marring his handsome looks. The squire’s retreat was necessarily checked.

‘What news, my lord? Good or bad?’

Albany shed his bed-gown and chewed a thumbnail for a moment or so before replying.

‘I’m not sure. The arrival of a messenger from my uncles and other members of the Council coincided with my own. Indeed, he was shown into Gloucester’s bedchamber a second or so before I was.’

‘And, my lord?’ Donald prompted when the duke broke off, staring absent-mindedly into space.

‘What?’ The duke gave a start as if recalled from a long way away. ‘Oh, yes. The Council is offering to negotiate. I gather that a part, at least, of the Princess Cicely’s dowry is on offer, to be repaid immediately, with a promise of further instalments later on.’ He chewed his nail again. ‘There will be no siege, no conquest. My Cousin Gloucester, together with certain chosen lords — myself included, naturally — will be admitted peacefully to the city tomorrow morning to be received in state at the castle, where we shall be housed. The English army will remain encamped in the valley, to be victualled at the Scots’ expense until such time as they withdraw from Scottish soil. Gloucester has agreed, of course. He’d be a fool not to.’

Albany again appeared to be distracted by his own thoughts, and this time it was my turn to recall him to himself.

‘But surely, this is no bad thing, my lord. Negotiations are better any day than the death and destruction of war. Think how many lives will be saved.’

For my own part, I could scarcely conceal my relief and joy that the end of this madcap adventure must now be in sight. A week, perhaps less, could well see me on the long road home in the wake of the retreating English army.

I wasn’t certain that the duke had been attending to my words, but he suddenly spun round to face me, his eyes narrowing.

‘And where do you think these negotiations will leave me, Roger? Not crowned king of Scotland, you may be sure. I shall be one of the bargaining counters. Let me guess. On behalf of King Edward, Cousin Gloucester will not press my claim to the throne, while the Council, acting in my brother’s name, will leave Berwick to its fate, allowing it to become once again an English town, one of the main aims of this expedition. I am no longer necessary to your countrymen, you see.’

I could see, now that it was pointed out to me, and I was able to understand his bitterness. I could see, too, that, whether it had been planned or not, the killing of King James’s favourites and the taking of the king himself into custody had been a shrewd move on the part of the Scots nobles. Furthermore, their offer of a peaceful settlement had rendered Albany valueless to the English.

Donald cleared his throat. ‘My lord!’ He put out a hand as if to grasp his master’s wrist before thinking better of it. ‘My lord!’ he repeated with an urgency I failed to understand. Albany, still looking a little dazed, also failed to grasp his meaning judging by the questioning glance he turned in the squire’s direction. Donald muttered something in the Scots tongue and the duke’s face lightened momentarily.

‘Ah, yes!’ He took a deep breath like a drowning man coming up for air and spoke more cheerfully. ‘Of course!’ But then he hesitated, obviously thinking better of what he had said, and shook his head. ‘That must wait,’ he continued. ‘First, Rab Sinclair must be cleared of this charge against him. I can’t and won’t attend to my own affairs before I see him freed.’

‘But, my lord, what can be done?’ the squire protested. ‘He’s plainly guilty. He was arrested with the knife still in his hand, the body still warm.’

‘If Rab says it was in self-defence, however improbable that may seem, then I for one believe him. His claim must be investigated, and — ’ he turned to me, throwing out his arms in a triumphant gesture — ‘here is the very man to do it!’ Donald eyed me sceptically, but Albany continued enthusiastically, ‘Yes, yes! He has a reputation for being able to solve mysteries and problems. He has even done so for Cousin Gloucester and other people of note.’

He smote me on the back with such vigour that I lost my balance, toppled over on to the bed and decided that, while there, I might as well climb between the sheets again.

‘Your Grace is pleased to joke about it,’ I ventured, praying to God and the Virgin that he would agree.

My luck was out, as I had feared it would be.

‘No joke, Roger.’ Albany got into bed beside me. ‘What foresight on my part to insist on bringing you along. It’s almost as if I had had a premonition.’

‘I thought I was brought to guard you from your enemies,’ I snapped, glancing meaningfully at Donald Seton.

‘Oh, that mainly,’ Albany agreed, adding hurriedly, ‘From those English lords and their hired assassins who desired my death. But I think that now, until I put my own plan into execution and once more become a threat to them, they will consider King Edward’s intention to have me crowned king of Scotland as unlikely to be fulfilled.’ He nodded dismissal to the squire. ‘All right, Donald, you may go. Tell the others what has happened and be ready to accompany me into Edinburgh tomorrow morning, whenever the embassy arrives from the castle and His Grace of Gloucester decides to enter the town. Now, for God’s sake, let’s all get some sleep.’

I don’t know that I slept much, there were too many thoughts crowding my mind, but I can vouch for it that, whatever cares and prospects of potential disappointment were troubling Albany, he slumbered peacefully until daybreak. (I can also vouch for the fact that the monks had fed their noble guests garlic at supper, for the smells which rose from beneath the bedclothes from time to time were of an indescribable pungency.)

I lay awake for at least an hour, staring at the four walls of the austere, cell-like guest-room of Holy Rood Abbey, wondering what this plan of the duke’s was that would ensure his coronation despite the wreckage of his and his English allies’ schemes to seize the Scottish throne in the wake of military conquest and the possible death or capture of his brother. I also lay awake cursing my fate at being pitchforked into a murder mystery that Albany would expect me to solve by exonerating his friend, even though it seemed to be a straightforward case of a husband killing his wife in a fit of — what? Jealousy? Betrayal? Or just a fit of pique because the meat had been undercooked at dinner? (Not such a ridiculous idea as you might think.) I had a few choice words to say to God on the subject, just to let Him know what I thought of the situation, but, as always, He ignored me and let me get on with venting my spleen without vouchsafing any reply. He knew that I knew He would give me His help when it was required.

Having given God this piece of my mind I felt better and commended my soul, and the souls of all those whom I loved, to His care throughout the hours of darkness. After that, I was at last able to sleep until the sounding of trumpets from the camp and the voices of the monks at their devotions — it was the hour of Prime — finally roused me.

Breakfast was a handful of oats, some black bread and a cold sausage in the monks’ kitchen in the company of other low-life like myself, while our masters were, by the smell of things, feasting on bacon collops, honey cakes and the best of the abbey’s home-brewed ale. There was, too, another faint aroma lingering on the air which Murdo MacGregor condescended to inform me was that of the famous ‘water of life’, the ‘usquebaugh’ (whisky we called it in England: we never were any good at getting our tongues round foreign words) that had first come over with the Scots from Ireland and been made here ever since. It was, he said, very good for warming the body, and the monks partook liberally of it to keep themselves warm during the office of Matins and Lauds. I sympathized. I knew from experience that the small hours of the morning can chill one to the marrow in an icy church, with the cold of the flagstones striking up through the bones and sinews.

Long before the abbey bells began to toll the office of Tierce, and before a pale sun was halfway to its zenith, my lord Gloucester, with Albany by his side and a cluster of his chosen nobles at his back, was mounted on his favourite horse, White Surrey, waiting in the Canongate — a borough independent of town or abbey — for the Scots deputation from the castle. I guessed he was none too pleased at the delay, but kept his features schooled to indifference, unlike Earl Rivers and his nephew, the Marquis of Dorset, who grumbled openly about bad manners, and others who were voicing their doubts about the good faith of the Scots. Albany said nothing, torn, no doubt, between resentment at these slurs cast at his countrymen and a rising hope that maybe members of the Scottish Council had changed their minds after all and that a siege would be the order of the day.

But, finally, as the clamour of the bells died away and the chanting of the monks began, trumpets sounded from beyond the city walls and, minutes later, the gates were opened to let a cavalcade of men and horses stream out to welcome in the Duke of Gloucester and his entourage. Heading this company were three men whom Davey Gray immediately identified as Albany’s three half-uncles; the Earls of Atholl and Buchan, two of the chief architects of the coup at Lauder Bridge, and their brother, the Bishop of Moray.

Diplomatic pleasantries, palpably insincere, were duly exchanged, although I noticed that no one on the Scots’ side actually addressed a word to Albany or responded to his greetings. All he received were glances of contempt and acute dislike, and it struck me then that however much a reigning monarch might be reviled, a usurper — or, in this case, a potential usurper — was hated even more. (I recalled that as a child I had heard old men talk about Henry of Bolingbroke’s seizure of the throne from his cousin, King Richard, in the first years of the century, and how his great popularity with the masses had oozed away, turning to resentment after he had assumed the crown.)

At long last, we entered the city, the Duke of Gloucester riding shoulder to shoulder with the Earls of Atholl and Buchan, Albany behind them, side by side with his other uncle, the bishop, who remained tight-lipped and stared straight ahead between his horse’s ears. His nephew’s attempts to engage him in conversation were totally ignored, and after a while, Albany shrugged and gave up trying. But the expression on his face augured no good for his relatives if ever he did become king. For a minute or two, I speculated on how he thought he could achieve this end, what possible plan he could have up his elegant sleeve, but then I forgot about it as I looked around me, taking in details of my surroundings.

Albany had told me that this eastern approach to the castle was up a gentler incline than the stark rock faces of the north, south and west, but even so, it was a steady climb. What fascinated me most, however, was the medley — one might almost have said the muddle — of different kinds of dwelling. It soon became obvious that, originally, the community had been largely rural, owners of smallholdings and farmsteads, and a few of these spreads still remained, hens and pigs and even the occasional goat, wandering across the road as a snare to unwary horsemen. But new, two-storey wooden houses were springing up everywhere, although it was soon apparent that not every occupant was as yet prepared to abandon pastoral ways. Here and there, cattle and other livestock peered from ground-storey windows, while the goodman and his dame lived on the upper floor, reached by an outside staircase. In the midst of these dwellings, a fine, large church was under construction, the hammering of the masons and carpenters almost deafening us as we passed. I later learned that it was dedicated to Saint Giles, that preceptor and confessor of Charlemagne, and was rising on the site of the old Norman church, destroyed by the army of the last King Richard when English forces had ransacked the city nearly a hundred years earlier.

The people watching our cavalcade pass by were silent and sullen, refusing to raise so much as a cheer, even for their own lords and masters who, for the most part, ignored them. I could see that the Duke of Gloucester was ill at ease, used as he was to the cheering, adulatory crowds of York and London. The English generally were tense, and Earl Rivers more than once fingered the jewelled haft of the dagger he wore at his belt as though he expected treachery from his hosts. But we reached the castle in safety with only one incident when an onlooker scooped up a handful of mud from the roadway and, with a muttered curse, flung it at the Bishop of Moray. Men-at-arms immediately moved to restrain the offender, one of them felling him to the ground with a single blow. They were big men, these Scots, even though many of them were pale and gaunt with hunger, the ravages of the past winter having taken their toll on a yet greater scale here than in the northern shires of England. (And that, believe me, was saying a very great deal.)

As we crossed a rugged forecourt, I was surprised to see fewer defences than I had anticipated; but Davey, who had manoeuvred his mount alongside my cob in order to constitute himself my guide, told me that all of them had been demolished by the Scots themselves at the beginning of the previous century, after an English occupation of the fortress in the reign of the first Edward.

‘But why?’ I asked.

The page chuckled. ‘So that when you Sassenachs overran us again, you were unable to defend the castle, and so it was easily retaken. Rebuilding was only started after King David II was released from his English captivity. He built that great tower yonder and this defensive wall.’

As a Wessex man, born and bred, and with forebears equally native to the west country, the wars between England and Scotland had barely touched my consciousness, except as something that happened a very long way away. Wales, Ireland and even France were all nearer than this distant northern land, and once again I was nearly physically sick with the longing for home that engulfed me.

In the forecourt, the cavalcade drew to a halt and everyone dismounted. Grooms came to lead the horses to the stables while we humans were led up a steep flight of stone stairs by the portcullis gate to the very summit of the rock, where all the main buildings of the castle seemed to be crowded inside a curtain wall. The chief of these was a great hall, built of timber, which, as I soon discovered was used for sleeping, eating and recreation by all household servants and retainers, including those of visiting dignitaries, and consequently was hot, smelly and noisy eighteen or nineteen hours a day.

The royal apartments lay on the south-eastern point of the rock; a series of chambers built, so Davey informed me, by Albany’s grandfather, the first King James, the one who had eventually been murdered by his nobles, and whose ghost was said to haunt the place, even though he had not been killed there. Arrangements had been made to house my lord of Gloucester in the royal bedchamber — no one knew where King James was being held: it was thought probably in Craigmillar Castle — his squire and other household officers using the ante-room. Earl Rivers and his nephew, the Marquis of Dorset, were lodged in the Constable’s tower, while the remainder of the English lords were left to shift for themselves and find what accommodation they could, either in the castle itself or in the town.

At this point, obviously growing bored with my company and his self-appointed task as my guide and mentor, Davey abruptly disappeared, presumably in search of Murdo or Donald or even old friends and acquaintances, some of whom he must have had in the castle. Where Albany was I had no idea, but guessed him to be closeted with his uncles and the Duke of Gloucester. Not for the first time, he seemed able to do without my protection when it suited him, although I doubted if anyone was really interested in his demise any more. I couldn’t help feeling that his importance as a political pawn to both sides was diminishing by the minute. The Scots nobles had their king securely under lock and key, but had no intention of deposing him in favour of his brother, while the English, provided their terms were met — Berwick ceded and Princess Cicely’s dowry refunded — were quite willing to negotiate with King James and his spokesmen. My part was played, and I experienced a surge of anger that I was still being treated as though my presence were essential to Albany’s well-being.

The anger receded, giving place to an even greater panic than I had known earlier. A gnawing fear that I would never get home again suddenly grew into an overwhelming conviction that this was not merely some nightmare that would eventually be vanquished by common sense, but the brutal reality. I broke into a sweat, even though the day was chilly, and discovered that I was trembling. I needed help, and urgently.

I found it close at hand.

Davey had pointed out to me a small, square stone building, probably one of the oldest on the site, as the chapel of Saint Margaret of Scotland, the second wife of King Malcolm III and a lady of whom I had learned much from Brother Hilarion during my days as a novice at Glastonbury. Although she might never have lived in the west country, and although her mother had been a Magyar princess, on her father’s side, Margaret was descended from all the Wessex kings from Cerdic, through Alfred to her great-grandfather, Ethelred Unraed, who had tried to keep England free of the Danes with payments of gold. For by that time, the descendants of the Cerdingas were rulers of all England, not just of Wessex, and Saint Margaret had been of their line, brought to Scotland with her brother, the Atheling, and sister for safety after the Norman Conquest.

I pushed open the chapel door and went in.

Inside it was very cold and dark, a smell of dampness lingering on the air. But there was a light burning on the altar and I stumbled towards it, falling on my knees and lifting my eyes to the effigy of the saint which stood in a niche behind the guttering candles. I lit a fresh one at a flame of one of the three already burning there, then clasped my hands and sent up a silent prayer to be returned safely to my home and family. I don’t know exactly what I said now, after all these years, but I remember that I prayed with an intensity so great that I almost cracked my finger bones. I recollect vaguely that I also asked for the intercession of that other son of Somerset, Saint Dunstan, sometime Abbot of Glastonbury and, later, Archbishop of Canterbury, and also of Saint Patrick, born and bred in the west before being sold into slavery in Ireland. With such a trio of saints on my side, how could I fail to return home to Adela and the children?

Slowly but surely the panic drained out of me, leaving me with a feeling akin to emptiness, like a vessel that has been cleaned and scoured. And gradually, in its turn, calmness and sanity returned. I was not alone any more. I was sure, although I had had no sign, that my prayers would be answered.

The chapel door creaked open and I turned my head. A man’s form was framed in the doorway.

‘What, by all that’s holy, are you doing in here, Roger?’ Albany demanded. He sounded annoyed. ‘Murdo and Donald have been searching everywhere for you.’