The Green Man

Twenty

There were lights everywhere.

At first, they were simply a golden glow, spreading inside my eyelids, adding to the confusion of mind as I struggled to recognize where I was and what had happened to me. My body felt like lead and, for the second time, I felt as though a mule had kicked me in the back of my head. I tried to lift my arms, only to discover that something was preventing movement, but at that point I wasn’t particularly worried as I teetered once more towards the edge of sleep. Unconsciousness seemed eminently desirable, and I let my body go slack, greeting oblivion like a welcome friend …

Then, suddenly, I was wide awake, my heart pounding in unison with my throbbing head as I realized that I was bound upright to some sort of pillar by several coils of rope — ankles, calves, thighs, waist and chest — my arms pulled behind me around the pillar and my wrists lashed together in a very painful fashion.

I opened my eyes and it was then that I saw the lights; what seemed like a myriad candles illuminating the interior of one of the most extraordinary buildings I have ever seen. Everywhere I looked was a riot, an abundance of imagery. Dragons, imps, angels, what appeared to be Judaic and Arabic symbols cheek by jowl, fruit, flowers, sea-serpents, not painted but carved from stone. Heaven knows who were the masons who had done such work; I have never seen anything in the whole of my life to equal it, not even in some of the greatest churches. They had used the stone as if it were clay to be moulded at will to the greater glory of God.

But as I continued to stare around me, I began to wonder uneasily if the glory was indeed to God. In whichever direction I looked, a head of the Green Man met my eyes, an abundance of foliage spilling out of his mouth. The chapel — for I had guessed by this time that I was inside the chapel built by the Sinclairs forty years earlier — was lit by six windows on either side, and every one was surrounded by mouldings of this ancient spirit of renewal and replenishment as he spewed his bounty on to the earth beneath. But there were others, everywhere …

The sudden awareness of acute physical discomfort dispersed my awe and amazement. The pillar to which I was bound was also a marvel of the stonemason’s art, being not only ribbed, but also carved with great swathes of vegetation that spiralled around it, standing proud and digging into my shoulders, back and legs or any other part of my anatomy they happened to touch. As the drug with which my drink had been laced wore off, the pain grew increasingly intense. I struggled to free myself, knowing full well that it was impossible, whilst my bolting senses told me that I was in an exceedingly dangerous predicament. Not to overstate the matter, I was probably going to be killed.

But why? And who were my potential killers?

The second question was easily answered. It had to be Albany and his bunch of henchmen. They had brought me here, to Roslin, but their motive was still obscure. All the same, a nasty suspicion was beginning to form at the back of my mind as I recalled someone — exactly who I could not now remember — telling me that this pillar was thought to be modelled on one that had supported an inner porch of King Solomon’s Temple and, in the same breath, had mentioned the slaying of Hiram Abif, the architect, as a ritual sacrifice. And hadn’t the apprentice who built this pillar also been killed by a blow to the head?

I closed my eyes against the lights and tried to rid myself of the images of death swirling inside my brain. Why would Albany want me dead? What for? He had always claimed me as a friend. Indeed, I had been a friend to him in the past, a fact he seemed to have acknowledged with becoming gratitude for one in so exalted a position. But there, of course, was the rub. ‘Put not your trust in princes’ was a maxim I fervently believed in, yet on this occasion I had let myself ignore it; not completely, it was true, but I had been sufficiently careless to overlook certain warning signs. And, as a result, here I was, in a situation of extreme peril from which, I felt sure, I would be lucky to escape alive.

I tried, unsuccessfully, to lift my back away from the swag of stone foliage that was cutting me between the shoulder blades. My feet and hands were starting to go numb, while a lesser, but more humiliating discomfort began to occupy my mind. My bladder was full to bursting point with the quantity of drink I had taken, and the urge to relieve myself where I stood was overwhelming. But that would be assumed by my captors to be an indication of fear — quite rightly as it happened — and I wasn’t prepared to give them that satisfaction. I gritted my teeth and attempted to give my thoughts a different direction.

That wasn’t difficult. Where on earth were Albany and the rest? Why didn’t they come and put me out of my misery, at least if it was only to tell me what they intended, and what this charade was all about?

The thought had hardly formed before I heard the chapel door creak open. The candle flames tore sideways in the draught, then steadied as the door was closed again. There was the soft pad of booted feet across the flagstones and they stood before me; six men, their features concealed behind masks of the Green Man.

I knew them at once, of course: there had been no other attempt at disguise. Their height, their girth, the shape of their hands and feet, above all, their clothes, still mud-spattered from our morning’s ride, all proclaimed their identity. A sudden surge of anger replaced, if only for a moment, my fear.

‘You might as well take off those damned comic masks,’ I snarled. ‘If you think I can’t recognize you, you’re very much mistaken.’ I let the fury take hold of me. ‘If you knew how crass, how stupid you all look …’ I let the sentence hang as terror once more rendered me silent.

Somewhat to my surprise, Albany complied, letting the mask swing from his fingers by its ties. John Tullo would have followed suit, but Davey’s hand shot out and clutched the groom’s wrist, preventing him.

The duke smiled sadly at me.

‘Roger, I’m sorry about this. I had hoped it wouldn’t be necessary. And if all had gone to plan, it wouldn’t have been. If my brother’s army had been defeated in battle by the Sassenachs and Edinburgh conquered by force of arms, James taken prisoner or, even better, killed, then, by now, I would have been accepted as King of Scotland. Unfortunately — ’ he shrugged — ‘these plans were thwarted by my uncles’ totally unlooked-for decision to rid the country of James’s gaggle of disreputable favourites at Lauder Bridge. Oh, don’t think I blame them! It was retribution well deserved and long overdue. But the moment, from my point of view, could not have been more ill-chosen. My brother is a prisoner, but not of the English. And one of my countrymen’s conditions — indeed, the chief one — for a peaceful settlement is his restoration to his throne.’

‘So?’ I croaked.

He smiled again with even greater regret. ‘So, I must look for non-human aid in order to achieve my ambition. I must sacrifice to the Green Man, symbol of change and renewal.’

‘Sacrifice?’ I could barely get the word out. My lips felt so stiff they would barely function.

The duke nodded. ‘Just as Mithras cut the throat of the bull, just as Christ gave his own life on the Cross, so all gods need blood before they can bring about change. The Green Man also.’

‘He’s n — not a god,’ I managed to stutter. ‘He’s nothing but a symbol of fertility.’

The rest of the little group made a hissing sound and I saw hands move to dagger hilts. Donald and Murdo took a step nearer, but Albany flung out his arms.

‘No!’ he cried imperatively. ‘Remember, he must be killed with his own knife or the sacrifice is invalid.’

The two squires fell back, but I could hear their heavy breathing and sense the blood-lust that was now consuming each and every one of the six.

It was like a dream — a nightmare! I couldn’t really believe that this sort of nonsense was happening in the modern world. This was the fifteenth century. Surely no one had faith in the pagan rituals of our distant ancestors any more? Not in western Europe, anyway. What happened in distant, heathen lands, beyond the perimeters of the Christian world, far beyond Muscovy and the realms of Prester John, that was anybody’s guess. But this was Scotland and the year was 1482.

Who was I trying to fool? Witchcraft and sorcery were still practised in every remote village and hamlet in England. Hadn’t I seen the signs and symbols often enough on my travels, but chosen to ignore them, even going so far, on occasions, as to pretend to myself that I had misinterpreted them? And if in England, why not in Scotland, a country even less civilized than its neighbour? And I suddenly recollected that the Earl of Mar, amongst whose servants Donald, Murdo, Davey and the other two were numbered, had been accused of sorcery. Wrongly, many claimed, but now I felt certain it had been the truth.

Anger again possessed me. I glared at Albany.

‘Is this what you brought me from England for?’ I demanded, finding my voice and almost shouting at him. ‘Is this why you particularly asked King Edward for me to accompany you? All that talk about wanting me for a bodyguard because you feared for your life, of trusting me when you could trust nobody else, was just one great lie?’ I drew a deep breath and rapped out, ‘Answer me!’

Albany threw out his hands. ‘Roger, my friend — ’ the hypocrisy of that word made me want to spit — ‘if anyone else would have done, you must believe me when I say that only desperation would have induced me to put your life at risk. Three years ago, you helped me when I was a friendless outlaw from my brother’s court. I appreciate that more than you will ever know.’

‘This a strange way to show your appreciation,’ I snarled. ‘And why me?’

Again he spread his hands.

‘But isn’t it obvious?’ His voice was now soft, persuasive, almost soothing. As he went on talking, I found myself beginning to relax in spite of the stone swags pressing into my back and the loss of feeling in my hands and feet. After a little while, my senses began to swim and the candle flames grew in size, dazzling me with their brightness. ‘You are one of us,’ he was saying. ‘You have the “sight”. You are a part of that world of the Elf Queen beneath the Eildon Hills; a part of the Lord of the Wild Hunt’s kingdom beneath Glastonbury Tor. You are at one with Thomas the Rhymer and the monk Collen who bearded Gwyn ap Nud in his lair. Your blood will be spilt to make me king and your name will never be forgotten by us, the Brotherhood of the Green Man. You will be remembered and honoured by us for generations to come. I shall …’

I don’t know what caused it — perhaps I shifted my position and all the agony of my bound limbs returned in a rush — but suddenly I was back in the real world, the candle flames no more than that, the men before me just fools dressed up in stupid masks that wouldn’t scare a schoolboy on All Hallows’ Night, and Albany spouting enough ill-informed nonsense to make a cat laugh. The trouble being, of course, that there was no cat and I was feeling very far from laughing.

My expression must have altered, for Albany sensed at once that the trance-like state into which I was being lulled had lost its magic. The spell was broken. He turned furiously to the others, a command hovering on his lips, so I instinctively played for time. I don’t know what I hoped to gain from a few extra minutes of life, but while I still had breath, there might yet be a gleam of hope.

‘Tell me why Mistress Sinclair had to die,’ I yelled. ‘Tell me the truth!’ Having, for the moment, diverted their attention, I moderated my tone. ‘And don’t pretend she plotted her husband’s murder with some mysterious lover. I’ve proved to my own satisfaction that that was a lie; a clever plot thought up by your friend, Rab Sinclair, and his housekeeper — something that you knew all along, my lord duke!’ I put as much contempt as, in the circumstances, I could muster into the last three words.

Albany, however, was indifferent to what I, or anyone else for that matter, thought of him. I could see it in the arrogant set of his head and shoulders and the scorn in his voice as he answered me.

‘Aline had to die. She had discovered Rab’s involvement with the cult of the Green Man during her recent visit here, to her aunt. Exactly how, Rab didn’t know. Perhaps something her aunt had said, or a chance remark from a stranger. Maybe she had had her suspicions for some while and had at last received confirmation of them.’ He shrugged. ‘Who knows? And, frankly, my dear Roger, who cares? The unfortunate fact is that Aline was a pious little soul with, like so many of her sort, a mind closed against all other forms of worship. Christianity breeds such people and, unhappily, the Church fosters and encourages their narrow-mindedness. Now we — ’ he turned and made a sweeping gesture that embraced his coterie of followers — ‘we tolerate men of all religions, faiths and creeds.’

‘You call human sacrifice toleration?’

Albany frowned, pained.

‘Not human sacrifice, Roger,’ he protested. ‘The shedding of blood for renewal of the spirit or, as in this case, to bring about needful change. It is my destiny to be King of Scotland. Scotland needs me.’

‘You’re mad,’ I said with conviction, but I knew, even as I spoke, that no one would ever be able to prove it. In all respects but one, he was as sane as I was, and furthermore he was a prince of the royal blood, related by his descent from John of Gaunt to most of the reigning houses of Europe. Whatever he did, he would be protected. How he would explain my disappearance, I wasn’t sure. There was a good chance that the Duke of Gloucester would eventually notice my absence and enquire after me, but by that time it would probably be too late to discover my remains and, in any case, Albany would head them off with some specious explanation. I might on occasions have my uses, but when all was said and done, I was nothing more than a common peasant, not to be weighed in the balance against someone of noble birth.

Albany moved again. I shouted desperately, ‘I’ve told you, I do not have the sight! I have dreams, that’s all, and none that foretell the future. Good God! Do you think I would have come with you today if I had known in advance what you had planned for me?’

‘On your own admission, your mother had the sight. That’s good enough.’ The duke turned again to the group behind him who had stood in near silence all this while.

‘Come, it’s time! Because the sight comes to Roger through the female line, it must be the woman amongst us who does the deed.’ He smiled at Davey. ‘My dear Eloise, yours is the honour.’

Eloise? The page was really a woman?

I had always thought Davey a somewhat effeminate lad, but had never questioned his sex. Now, however, that Albany had revealed the truth, it was so obvious, in the way she moved, in her voice, in the softness of her skin, in the lustre of those violet-blue eyes. (A pretty boy, I remembered thinking when I first met her.) I cursed that I had not realized the fact for myself. A woman disguised as a man would have alerted me, if not necessarily to my own danger, at least to all not being as it should be.

Albany laughed at what must have been my shocked expression.

‘Eloise was my late brother’s mistress,’ he explained. ‘She stayed with the others after his death and came to France to serve me. She preferred to pass as a boy, so we disguised her as my page. She may well stay a boy, even when I am king. She likes it … But we are wasting time.’ The duke was suddenly serious. He glanced over his shoulder at the slim, straight figure standing behind him, the face hidden by the grotesque Green Man mask so that I had no means of knowing what Davey — or Eloise as I must now try to think of her — was feeling. ‘Don’t be afraid, my dear. Take his knife from his belt and stab him cleanly through the heart, as Murdo has shown you.’

The girl nodded.

‘Saint Margaret,’ I prayed fervently, ‘help me! You are my countrywoman. You are of the royal house of Wessex. Aid me now in this moment of my greatest danger. Saint Dunstan! Child of Somerset, Abbot of Glastonbury, Archbishop of Canterbury, intercede for the life of a fellow Englishman.’

The words went babbling stupidly through my head, without making any sense, as I saw the slight figure advance resolutely towards me. I believe that at that point my mind was completely numb with terror. I tried desperately to think of Adela and my children, my home, but images of them wouldn’t come. All I could see was a great pit of darkness opening up at my feet …

‘Wait!’ No one was more surprised to hear my voice, loud, strong and authoritative than me. For a brief moment, I even wondered who it was that had spoken and why my would-be killer had stopped dead in her tracks.

‘Go on!’ urged Albany. ‘Eloise, go on! Let’s get this over with. The sooner he’s dead, the sooner the gods will move to have me accepted as king.’

‘Wait,’ I shouted again, and looked at Albany, the only one who had removed his mask. It was easier to address a human face. ‘You say I must be killed with my own knife. Is that part of the ritual?’

‘Well, what of it?’

‘This is not my knife.’ I jerked my head, the only free part of me, downwards to the weapon tucked in my belt.

‘What do you mean?’ Albany was growing angry. He suspected a trick.

‘This is Donald’s knife,’ I said. ‘He lent it to me yesterday when I was attacked in the street. Murdo was present. He can confirm it.’

The duke swore violently and swung round on one of the two taller figures at his side.

‘Is this true?’ he demanded. The green mask dipped in acknowledgement, calling forth another colourful string of curses that might, in different circumstances, have provoked my admiration. Albany spun back to me. ‘Where’s your own knife?’ he yelled. ‘The one you use for meat?’

‘I left it behind. I noticed at dinner that it’s grown blunt and needs sharpening. I thought Donald wouldn’t mind if I used his for a while. He didn’t seem in any hurry to have it back.’

‘You fool!’ the duke screamed at his unfortunate squire. ‘You stupid, feckless, unthinking idiot!’

‘What are we to do?’ asked the familiar voice of ‘Davey’. Knowing the truth, I wondered how I could ever have thought it the voice of a man.

‘Be quiet and let me think.’ Albany was chewing his knuckles in frustration. After what seemed to me to be the longest few moments of my life, he said, ‘The apprentice who built this pillar was killed by a blow to the head. We’ll use the same method. Find something one of you. Quickly! We still have to dispose of his body, and that will take time. I must be back in Edinburgh by this evening.’

‘And how will you explain my absence?’ I asked.

Albany grunted. ‘Nothing easier. You gave us the slip. You deserted, as you’ve been wanting to do for weeks now, and are probably making your own way back to England.’ He shrugged. ‘If, that is, anyone cares where you’ve gone.’

‘His Grace of Gloucester will care,’ I said, hoping to God and all the saints that I was right.

The duke slowly shook his head. ‘I’ve already prepared my cousin’s mind, these few days past, for the idea that you’re ripe for desertion. In any case, I don’t think the notion was new to him. He’s a fair man and realizes that you’ve fulfilled the purpose you were hired for. So he won’t send after you or trouble his head with where you’ve gone until he needs your services again, which may be many months ahead. Perhaps longer.’ He rounded furiously on his henchmen. ‘Why are you standing there like so many dolts? Don’t pretend you can’t understand English! Find a bludgeon of some sort. Anything so long as it’s heavy enough to kill him with a single blow. And pray to Mother Earth that the blood spilt thus, rather than with his own cold steel, is acceptable enough to secure her and her consort’s intervention to make me king.’

Someone moved — I guessed from the size and shape of him that it was the groom, John Tullo — and left the chapel to search for a suitable instrument of death. My death! The truth seemed to strike me afresh.

I strained frantically against my bonds, but I could have saved myself the effort. I was bound too tightly.

Albany shook his head.

‘Don’t struggle, Roger,’ he said reproachfully. ‘Accept death as a stepping-stone to the world of the hollow hills, where you will live and feast forever, rejoicing in the knowledge that you have given Scotland her greatest king; greater even than Robert le Brus. For surely I shall have bigger and better triumphs than Bannockburn.’

‘And … And this was why you asked for me to accompany you to Scotland?’ I stuttered. ‘To use me as a human sacrifice if you didn’t become king?’ Even now, I couldn’t really believe it. Surely I would suddenly wake up and find that it was all a dream.

Albany nodded. ‘I suspected treachery on the part of the English. Or at least let us just say that I judged it wise to take precautions. I remembered from our first encounter, someone — maybe yourself — telling me that you were thought to have the sight, so I knew you to be one of us.’

‘I’m not one of you!’ I shouted, hoarse now with desperation. ‘You’re mad, all of you! Heretics! Blasphemers!’

I heard again the intake of breath, like the hiss of a snake. The mood was turning ugly. Uglier, I should say; for what could be nastier or more terrifying than a man who believed that the ritual killing of a fellow human being could win him his heart’s desire? And yet … And yet … Wasn’t the spilling of blood at the heart of most religious beliefs? Christianity, Judaism, Mithraism …

‘And all those apparent attempts on your life were false?’ I croaked.

‘To keep you from absconding,’ the duke agreed. ‘To prevent you from suspecting the truth. And in the end, of course, you proved to be worth your weight in gold, worth all the effort to keep you by my side, when it came to assisting my friend, Rab Sinclair. A pity that you stumbled on the truth, but it really doesn’t matter, does it? No one will ever hear it from you now.’ He turned petulantly to look about him. ‘Where’s that fool gone? What’s taking him so long? Surely by this time he could have found a good, stout branch that would do the job?’

‘Perhaps your groom doesn’t approve of what you plan to do,’ I said, although I had little hope of that. I had just felt a draught as the chapel door opened once more. Nevertheless, I went on, ‘Perhaps he’s the one of your followers — the man in the Green Man mask — who kept trying to warn me that my life was in danger; who kept urging me to watch my back.’

Albany looked as though I’d struck him. He went red and began to breathe heavily.

‘If I thought that-’ he was beginning.

‘He wasn’t the man who warned you, Roger,’ said a familiar voice, as Timothy Plummer emerged out of the candlelit shadows. ‘I did.’ He turned and beckoned, and half a dozen foot-soldiers — big, brawny fellows with a no-nonsense look about them — marched in, two of them holding the struggling John Tullo, minus his mask, between them. He added, pointing at Albany and his followers, ‘Arrest these men.’

Do I need to tell you that, in the short, sharp skirmish that followed, Albany somehow mysteriously vanished? Was allowed to vanish, you can be sure of that. It was no part of Timothy’s brief to arrest the King of Scotland’s brother so that he could publicly be accused of witchcraft and sorcery. These things were better dealt with in the dark, as the Earl of Mar’s death had been. But the other five were arrested and taken back to Edinburgh under armed guard. I was cut free of the so-called apprentice’s pillar, and a sorry state I was in for a couple of days afterwards as I recuperated in the castle under Timothy’s watchful eye. He proved to be a surprisingly good nurse.

‘What made you suspicious of Albany’s real intentions?’ was one of the first questions I asked him.

He snorted indignantly. ‘For heaven’s sweet sake, Roger, I’m a spy! I know all sorts of things about people that I daresay I shouldn’t. I knew, for instance, that that bevy of beauties who had fled to France to join him, had been deeply implicated in the charges of sorcery that had been levied — although never, of course, proved — against Mar. I knew, too of Albany’s deep interest in the cult of the Green Man. It was he who requested — no, insisted — on the masque of the Green Man and Mother Earth at Fotheringay. That was where I stole one of the mummers’ masks and wore it when I tried to warn you.’

Deeply grateful as I was for my eleventh-hour rescue, I couldn’t help asking bitterly, ‘Why, in God’s Name, didn’t you just come out and tell me, man to man, what you suspected?’

‘Because,’ he snapped back, ‘I didn’t really know what it was that I did suspect. Only that you might be in some sort of danger. Which you wouldn’t have been if things had gone according to plan and Albany crowned King of Scotland. I didn’t want you rampaging off home, or storming off to confront Albany, or, worse still, my lord of Gloucester, all on the strength of my unfounded suspicions. I repeat, unfounded. I should have been in the shit up to my neck.’

I agreed he had a point. ‘And what will happen to Albany? The others must be for the fire or the hangman’s noose.’

Once again, Timothy snorted. ‘That one will dig his own grave without any help from me. Meanwhile-’ he clapped me on the shoulder — ‘news has come that the citadel at Berwick has surrendered. We’re for the homeward march, my lad, the day after tomorrow. Negotiations here are completed.’

And so we were. But before I shook the dust of Edinburgh and its castle off my feet, I went to give thanks and homage to my fellow west countrywoman, that descendant of the kings of Wessex, Saint Margaret of Scotland.