The Green Man

Sixteen

It had stopped raining, but the atmosphere was still heavy and overcast. Above the distant crag, the sky was illumined, every now and then, with brief flashes of lightning. The absence of any subsequent clap of thunder suggested that whatever new storm was brewing was as yet some way away, but the effect was unsettling, like waiting for a threatened danger that failed to arrive.

I reckoned that by now the afternoon was almost over. Indeed, judging by my ravenous hunger and the gurgling of my empty belly I guessed it must be nearly suppertime. It was my cue to return to the castle and report such progress as I had made. Which wasn’t much. I didn’t fool myself that Albany would be pleased. People always expected miracles and instant solutions. They could never understand why it took time and patience to put a picture together, piece by piece.

I directed my footsteps back the way I had come, across the Grassmarket and through the maze of alleys connecting it to the Lawnmarket and so to the long, uphill thoroughfare that was the heart of the city, linking the abbey at one end to the castle at the other. It was not yet dusk, nor would be for some hours, but there was already a sense of traders at least beginning to think of packing up, locking their stalls for the night and sliding away home or to whatever dens of vice and iniquity they were patronizing that particular evening; an end of the day feeling that told me it was probably even later than I had thought.

I was within an easy few paces of my objective — I could see the sentries on guard at the castle gates quite plainly — when I was seized roughly from behind by an arm pinned across my throat and forced back against the nearest wall. A blast of bad breath, redolent of decaying teeth and garlic, caught me full in the face as my assailant removed his arm from my windpipe and placed his hands on my shoulders, making it impossible for me to move until such time as I recovered my breath. A square, pugnacious face, bristling with a red beard and topped by a thatch of the same-coloured hair, was thrust up against mine, while two extremely blue eyes indicated that their owner was contemplating violence of a very unpleasant kind.

A stream of rapid Scots assaulted my ears and my head was banged against the wall with a brutality that caused everything to go out of focus for several unnerving seconds. A swarm of very angry bees seemed to have taken up residence inside my ears. As another torrent of unintelligible language smote them, I did the only thing possible in the circumstances: I brought up my right knee with all the force of which I was capable and slammed it into those parts which my assailant had possibly been intending to put to good use that evening. (I had noticed on my travels that there was no shortage of brothels in the city.) He gave a yell, dropped his hands and doubled over, clutching the afflicted member. But the screech he set up had attracted the attention of other passers-by who, until then, had presumably thought the assault on me nothing more than a normal, everyday pocket-picking. Now, however, they perceived by the language with which I was berating my attacker that I was English, one of the hated Sassenachs whose uninvited presence was besmirching their streets. Immediately half a dozen stalwart citizens hurried to the aid of one of their own.

I backed up against the wall again, bunched my fists and waited. I wasn’t prepared to go down without a fight, but neither did I delude myself that I was in anything but the tightest of tight places, or that I might not get out of it alive. The six men, already joined by others who had crossed the street to see what was going on, were advancing slowly, grins of anticipation lighting their ugly faces. They were enjoying prolonging my agony. My original enemy had been kicked unceremoniously out of the way, as he continued to nurse himself where it hurt and spit expletives at me. They sounded wonderfully venomous; I just wished I knew what they meant.

I shifted my stance against the wall and watched to see who would land the first blow. My guess was that it would come from the big man in the middle, but in the end it was a little runt of a fellow with a broken nose who dodged in under my guard and punched me in the chest. My height stood me in good stead: he was too short to reach any higher and I returned his punch with interest, giving him a bloody nose. It was no hit to boast about, but I had drawn blood and suddenly the grins were wiped from my opponents’ lips as the general mood became darker. This was no longer a street brawl but a settlement of accounts with the age-old enemy from across the Border. I felt my stomach muscles tighten and fought down the impulse to retch. I knew now that this was definitely going to be a fight to the death. And there was no doubt in anyone’s mind whose death it would be. Mine.

I clenched my fists even tighter and thought fleetingly of Adela and the children. At the same time, I reflected in a detached sort of way how stupid it was to be ending my life in a foreign street in a foreign country and all because of an incident that had blown up out of a clear blue sky (in a manner of speaking) without any rhyme or reason. If I had just allowed the first man take whatever he could find — and he wouldn’t have found much: Albany had forgotten to pay me lately — instead of playing the hero, I should not now be facing this hostile crowd and praying for a miracle. I closed my eyes, steeling myself for the next blow …

Nothing happened except that a furious voice yelled a string of words amongst which I just managed to make out the duke’s name and also those of his half-uncles, Atholl and Buchan; and on opening my eyes again, I saw Donald Seton and Murdo MacGregor pushing their way through my would-be assailants and laying about them with drawn swords. At the sight of naked steel, the mob dispersed hurriedly, if not quietly, most of them exchanging insults (well, I presumed they were insults: they certainly didn’t sound like invitations to supper) with my rescuers.

I gasped my thanks as I straightened my clothing, trying to appear more nonchalant than I felt.

‘I never thought I should be so glad to see you two,’ I admitted somewhat ungraciously.

Murdo gave a sardonic grin but said nothing. Donald, on the other hand, was angrily berating my original assailant who was still huddled on the ground, rocking to and fro, continuing to nurse those parts I had damaged and muttering sullenly in response to this tongue-lashing.

‘I don’t know who he is,’ I said. ‘He just came at me out of the blue. A pickpocket, I suppose.’

Donald gave the poor wretch a final kick for good measure and turned to me.

‘The fool’s name is Jared Lockhart and he’s Robert Sinclair’s man. He must have learned that you’ve been making enquiries about his master and decided to warn you off.’ He regarded me a little contemptuously. ‘Don’t you know better than to go about a city like this unarmed? And you an Englishman into the bargain.’

‘I’ve never been issued with any arms,’ I pointed out savagely. ‘Not even a staff. Blame my lord Albany who’s kept me dancing attendance on him like a glorified chamberer.’

They both sniggered at that, but then Donald Seton pulled a long-bladed dagger from his belt and tossed it to me.

‘Here! Borrow this!’

Murdo let out a growl of protest, but his companion quelled his objections with a frown.

‘Roger can’t go around Edinburgh without protection,’ he said shortly. ‘He could have been killed back there if we hadn’t arrived on the scene.’ He added something else in Scots to which Murdo shrugged and pulled down the corners of his mouth, but he made no further protest.

We were by now inside the castle precincts and ascending the steep staircase by the Portcullis Gate towards the cluster of buildings on the summit.

‘And have you discovered anything to Master Sinclair’s advantage?’ Donald asked as we paused at the top to catch our breath. Even three fit men like ourselves found the climb tiring. Heaven alone knew how armoured men had coped with it during an assault. (Except that they probably wouldn’t have tried. They’d have sent in the lightly clad, expendable foot soldiers to clear their path.)

As I took in the astonishing view from that eagle’s eyrie, I shook my head. ‘Not as much as my lord duke would no doubt like,’ I answered and sniffed. ‘Is that supper I can smell? I’m ravenous.’

Donald grinned and clapped me on the back.

‘Hungry, eh?’ I nodded emphatically. ‘I’m afraid you’ll have to wait until you’ve seen the duke. I was told to bring you straight to him as soon as we’d found you. He was getting worried about you, Roger. He’d expected to hear from you sooner, my friend.’

I snorted angrily. Exactly as I had thought! As always, I was being asked to work miracles.

‘Take me to him, then,’ I said. ‘He might as well know the worst as soon as possible. Where is he?’

Donald glanced at Murdo with a lift of his eyebrows. The other man responded with a typical hunching of his shoulders, but at least, and most unusually, he had the courtesy to speak in English for my benefit.

‘He was in the Council Chamber when he sent me to fetch you. Maybe he’s still there. Try it first. If he isn’t, he’s probably gone to his quarters.’ The squire gave a mirthless smile. ‘I understand there’s to be a “friendly” banquet tonight to set the seal on whatever agreements have been reached today and to put everyone in a good mood for further negotiations tomorrow.’

Donald drew in his breath sharply through clenched teeth.

‘That doesn’t augur well for my lord’s hopes, then.’ Both men fell silent for a moment, their thoughts obviously elsewhere, before Donald continued, ‘We’d better go and find him, Roger, and get it over with. We’ll try the Council Chamber first.’

We made our way towards a building in the lee of a tower which I had heard referred to as David’s Tower, and entered by a thick, iron-studded door into an ante-chamber hung with tapestries depicting scenes in the lives — or so I assumed — of ancient kings. Scenes of mayhem and murder nudged those of pomp and splendour, all glowing with rich reds and yellows, blues and greens, an adornment to any walls in any palace in Europe. I don’t know why it surprised me to see them here, in Scotland, except that I had always presumed it to be a poverty-stricken land with an equally poverty-stricken court. A typically English presumption I suppose. (Nevertheless, it was a poor country, and it had been hit even harder than our own northern shires by the recent months of atrocious weather.)

A second door at the far end of the room stood slightly ajar, and from behind it, Albany’s voice could be heard raised in protest.

‘He’s still here,’ Donald Seton muttered in my ear. ‘Wait for him to come out and tell him your news. If any,’ he added with a mocking grin. ‘I’m off to my supper before all the best of the food gets taken. There are a lot of us to be fed, what with the castle’s normal inhabitants and all the visiting retainers. And they’re a greedy bunch. I’d advise you to come along as soon as you can.’

I thanked him acidly for his concern. He laughed, clapped me on the shoulder a second time and departed, his opening and shutting of the outer door creating a draught that lifted the tapestries, making the woven figures seemingly come alive. It was then that I noticed a young page asleep on a stool in one corner, wearing the blue and murrey livery of the Duke of Gloucester. Prince Richard must also still be in the Council Chamber, and was most likely the person to whom Albany was talking.

I edged a little closer to the open inner door and cautiously eased it a fraction wider with my foot. This gave me a view of the right-hand side of the room as I faced it; part of a table and a row of cushioned chairs and stools ranged alongside, some of the latter partially pushed back as their occupants had left them. Another set of glowing tapestries adorned the walls that I could see, and candlelight spilled across the table top, adding its smoky radiance to the watery daylight seeping in from a window at the far end of the chamber.

As I watched, carefully concealed in the shadow of the half-open door, the Duke of Gloucester walked into view. His thin frame was richly, but not sumptuously dressed; and a light breastplate, although not one he would wear into battle, plainly hinted that the recent meeting was no mere social gathering of neighbouring princes, but a situation that could still flare into open war. All the same, he had lost the careworn frown that had marred his handsome features of late, and the narrow, mobile mouth had a more contented tilt to the corners. But for all that, he had not shed those little nervous tricks of fiddling with the hilt of his dagger, twisting the rings on his fingers or smoothing his left sleeve with the long, sensitive fingers of his right hand. People who knew him well — or who knew people who knew him well, like Timothy Plummer — said he was a poor sleeper, very often troubled by nightmares. And I suppose, given the history of his very nearly thirty years, that was hardly surprising. He had been the prop and stay of his brother’s throne for the past two decades, saddled with responsibility from a horrifyingly early age, and with a hatred of his Woodville in-laws that had to be continually suppressed. Given such circumstances, I felt that I would, myself, have grown a little twitchy.

He was speaking to someone on the other side of the table, out of my line of vision, but who, I knew, must be Albany. As far as I could make out, they were alone in the room.

‘I have done my best for you, Cousin.’ He threw out his arms. ‘You know that! You must have heard me, but they won’t accept you as king.’

‘You and Edward promised-’ Albany began hotly in that whining voice that always made him sound like a thwarted child.

‘I know what we promised,’ my lord Gloucester interrupted. ‘But things haven’t gone according to plan. There’s been no battle, no conquest! We aren’t in a position to impose our will. Your brother isn’t dead. He’s a prisoner, it’s true, but he isn’t our prisoner. And your uncles and the other lords are willing to make peace on honourable terms. But they won’t have you as king.’

Albany moved round the top of the table so that I could just see him, illumined by the light from the window. His face was nothing but a pale oval, but I could easily picture its petulant expression.

‘Then let’s withdraw,’ he urged, banging his fist on the back of the nearest chair. ‘Let’s withdraw on some pretext or another and then lay siege to the place.’

‘You think that would be honourable?’ Gloucester’s tone was mocking. Albany shrugged. The candlelight shimmered across his satin sleeves, turning the scarlet to plum. Prince Richard continued, his voice persuasive, almost wheedling, ‘You have been offered a great position, Cousin. Lieutenant General of Scotland.’

‘Lieutenant General!’ Albany exclaimed scathingly. ‘Is that any substitute for a crown?’

Gloucester made an impatient movement with his arm. ‘You heard your countrymen yourself. They refuse to force your brother’s abdication. It’s true, I grant you, that many of them don’t like him; don’t trust him-’

‘But they dislike and mistrust me more, is that it?’ Albany gave a sour laugh.

‘They won’t dethrone an anointed king.’

‘And you agree with them!’ The accusation sounded like a statement, not a question. ‘What about your own Richard II?’

The Duke of Gloucester smiled. ‘You choose your example badly, Alexander. We of the House of York spent decades fighting for the succession that was rightfully ours. You can’t accuse me of approving of the deposing of a crowned and God-anointed king.’

‘What hypocrisy,’ Albany snarled. ‘You and Edward were willing enough to try to depose James by killing him in battle.’

‘That would have been an indication of God’s will,’ Gloucester replied sternly. ‘But now that God has shown his will in a different way, it is not for me or any man to dispute it.’

‘What you really mean is that you and your brother are going to get all you want, all you set out to get — the return of Cicely’s dowry and the surrender of Berwick — without having to fight for it.’ Albany’s voice rose shrilly.

‘If lives are saved on both sides, what is there to condemn in that?’

‘You think God condones broken promises?’

‘Not if they are made under oath, no. But neither Edward nor I swore to make you King of Scotland. Such a contingency always depended on the outcome of the invasion.’

‘You fooled me!’

‘No, Cousin.’ Gloucester moved restlessly, holding out a hand to Albany, the rings glittering on his fingers. ‘Come, my dear fellow, be friends! Take what has been offered you. A prime position in the government of Scotland. Lieutenant General is a generous offer. Much more than might have been expected in the circumstances, you must agree.’

‘And what about my brother, Mar? Is his death to go unavenged?’

Duke Richard put up a hand and brushed aside a lock of hair that had strayed across his forehead. I was struck anew how dark it was — in some lights almost black — and how olive-coloured his skin compared to the king and his other brother, the late Duke of Clarence. They were tall and fair-haired, and in the king’s case, blue-eyed (although now I came to picture him, perhaps George had been less of a blond giant than Edward). Nevilles both, whereas Richard favoured his father. Or, at least, so said people who could remember the long-dead Duke of York.

Gloucester spoke wearily, tiring of an argument he must by now have realized he was unlikely to win. ‘You have no proof that John was murdered.’

‘Of course he was murdered! He was accused of witchcraft. James wouldn’t tolerate that.’ Albany laughed. ‘He’s almost as pious as you are, Cousin.’

‘You speak as if piety’s something to be deplored.’

‘Perhaps it is. It depends on your gods.’

‘You’re close to blasphemy, Alexander. Consider what you’re saying, man!’

Albany hesitated for a moment as though he would argue further, but then seemed to think better of it and flung out his hands in a conciliatory gesture.

‘Forgive me, Dickon. My disappointment is making me stupid. You’re right, of course. I should be grateful that my uncles haven’t made one of their conditions that I should be clapped in the dungeons in chains. I don’t doubt that there are many of my relatives and enemies who’d like to see me get what they think are my just deserts. Lieutenant General, eh? As you’ve pointed out, a position of influence.’

My lord Gloucester nodded eagerly, plainly thankful that Albany was prepared to see sense at last.

‘And I trust that you will use your influence for good,’ he said.

Albany grinned. ‘For England’s good you mean, Coz.’

They both laughed at that and Duke Richard made a gesture of acknowledgement.

‘When do you leave?’ Albany asked.

‘As soon as all the negotiations have been completed. A day or so I should reckon. Three at the most. I understand that the City Magistrates are undertaking the refund of my niece’s dowry. There may be a little haggling with them which may prolong matters a trifle. What of your estates? Are you to get them back intact?’

‘Oh, yes. And a full pardon for what is seen as my treasonable behaviour.’ Albany’s tone had turned bitter again. ‘No mention, naturally, that my life was in danger and that was the reason I had to flee the country three years ago.’ He started to bite his left thumbnail, a habit he had when disturbed.

It was at this moment that a sudden tickle at the back of my nose caused me to sneeze, and although I tried to suppress it as best I could, the two men heard it and immediately swung round.

‘Who’s there?’ Albany demanded, while my lord Gloucester, not wasting time on words, strode towards the door and pulled it wide open.

‘Roger!’ he exclaimed without any hesitation, recognizing me at once by my height.

‘What are you doing? What do you want?’

I tried to look innocent and breathed heavily as though I had only just arrived instead of having been eavesdropping for the past ten minutes.

‘I’m looking for my lord Albany, Your Grace. I was told he might be here.’

‘Yes, he’s here.’ The duke eyed me narrowly, suspicious of my limpid gaze. He hadn’t known me for over ten years without coming to the conclusion that I was a devious bastard. His lips twitched as he pulled the door even wider and indicated his cousin, standing behind him. ‘I’ll leave you to tell him what you have to say.’ He spoke with a certain irony, patently glad for an excuse to be free of Albany’s company. But having brushed past me, my lord Gloucester paused and turned back. ‘Thank you for all your help on this journey, Roger,’ he said courteously, adding, ‘And I feel sure that Lord Albany will wish to add his thanks to mine. Also his farewells. In case you haven’t already heard — ’was there a slightly sarcastic note to his tone? — ‘we shall be for the homeward march in a day or so. I expect word any time now that Berwick has surrendered. Your wife and children will be delighted to have you back amongst them, I’ve no doubt.’

‘No doubt at all, Your Grace,’ I confirmed.

He looked into my eyes, that always unexpected sense of humour of his lighting his own with laughter.

‘Quite so.’ He patted my arm and, rousing his sleepy page, crossed the ante-chamber and disappeared through the outer door.

I turned to face Albany.

‘What news?’ he demanded at once, dispensing with any form of greeting. ‘What have you discovered?’

I was tired. I would have appreciated being asked to sit down, but no such invitation was forthcoming. I advanced into the room, the whole of the Council Chamber becoming visible as I did so. There were even more tapestries on the wall so far hidden from my sight, and I could see that they were as beautiful as the rest. Albany saw me looking and gave a short bark of laughter.

‘They came with my sister-in-law,’ he said ‘when she married James, along with the Orkneys and Shetlands, as I told you.’ His mood grew impatient again. ‘Enough of that! Well, man? What have you found out?’

‘I’ve not discovered the whereabouts of the diary, my lord, if that’s what you’re hoping.’

He didn’t, I noticed, seem unduly cast down by this piece of information. ‘That would have been too much to hope for,’ he answered brusquely and somewhat surprisingly. ‘So what have you found out? You’ve been gone all day. Surely you must have drawn some conclusions.’

‘Not really, my lord.’

His expression became not merely exasperated, but angry. ‘I thought — at least, I was told — you had a reputation for solving mysteries. I want this matter cleared up quickly, Roger. Can’t you understand that? I have affairs of my own to attend to, but I need to see Rab Sinclair liberated from prison before I can do so. Just tell me where you’ve been today, who you’ve talked to and what they had to say for themselves … Oh, sit down, man!’ This as I swayed suddenly, almost out on my feet with fatigue and hunger. Albany pulled out a stool and indicated I should be seated. There was a flagon of wine on a side table, surrounded by dirty beakers and a few delicate Venetian glasses. He grabbed one of the former, filled it and thrust it towards me. ‘Here! Drink this!’ I wondered with some distaste who had used it before me. But I could not afford to be fussy.

The wine steadied me, sending a glow through my veins and clearing my thoughts. I took a deep breath and began recounting my day’s adventures, repeating the conversations I had had with Maria Beton, Mistress Callender and John Buchanan, and adding for good measure the impressions I had gathered along the way.

I was about to summarize my findings in one or two brief, but brilliantly acute sentences, when I realized that Albany was no longer listening. He spoke with suppressed excitement.

‘You’re right, Roger!’ Right? I’d said nothing conclusive. ‘It’s Rab’s brother-in-law, of course! You’ve proved that Aline had time to pass the diary to him when she and Master Buchanan returned from Roslin. She must have grown uneasy while she was at her aunt’s — with good reason as it turned out: a premonition perhaps, such things do happen — and decided that it was too great a risk to keep it in the house any longer. And you’re probably correct in assuming an incestuous relationship between them.’

‘My lord, I’m not assuming-’

Albany ignored me. He was well away now, having gone from supposition to fact in one short leap.

‘Those papers you mentioned on his table! The diary is among them, I know it. I feel it in my bones.’ He leant over and slapped me on the back. ‘Roger, you’ve solved it! Tomorrow morning, first thing, I shall send Murdo and Donald, together with a contingent of the castle guards, to search Master Buchanan’s house and mark my words, we shall find what we are looking for. Rab will be free by evening.’