The Green Man

Nine

Within a few hours, the entire camp, from the highest to the lowest, knew that the Scots were in full retreat, taking their king with them — as a captive!

Albany was jubilant and could scarcely contain his excitement.

‘All of them, Cochrane, Scheves, Rogers and the rest, hanged from Lauder Bridge like common criminals and James forced to watch! And now he’s the prisoner of my half-uncles!’ The duke so far forgot himself as to fling his arms around me and kiss me on both cheeks as if I had been a prince of the blood instead of a menial hired to do his bidding. He was almost incoherent in his joy, and inclined to lapse into broad Scots with every other word, but, gradually, I pieced together what had happened.

The advancing Scots’ army had reached the little town of Lauder, a mere thirty miles or so distant from Berwick, when the Earls of Atholl and Buchan — two of the three sons of Joan Beaufort by her second marriage and descendants of that fiery old warhorse, John of Gaunt — together with the impetuous young Archibald, Earl of Angus, had finally become so incensed by the arrogant behaviour of the king’s favourites that they had led a wholly unexpected and, seemingly, totally unplanned coup d’etat, rousing the other nobles to mutiny, seizing the king’s minions and hanging them from the parapet of the bridge which spanned the Leader Water. It was believed — or, at least, Albany had been told — that this drastic measure had been provoked by the appearance of the hated Thomas Cochrane, in a suit of gilded armour with a gold chain worth five hundred crowns or more around his neck, to announce that King James had appointed him Head of Artillery. The Earl of Angus had apparently snatched off the chain with the remark that a rope would suit the favourite better and matters had just developed from there.

The Scots’ army was now in such a state of disarray that its leaders had decided to withdraw to Edinburgh, leaving the road into Scotland open to the English; and at a council of war the following morning, the Duke of Gloucester chose to leave Lord Stanley and part of his troops to reduce Berwick’s citadel by starving out the garrison — now without any hope of being relieved by their fellow countrymen — and to march the rest of the army straight on to the capital.

‘We shall be there by nightfall,’ Albany declared exultantly.

This statement proved to be optimistic. Striking camp and getting an army on the move, even one reduced in numbers, was a protracted task, taking at least a day, but finally I found my self in the saddle once again and moving northwards into a rugged terrain, the like of which was totally alien to me. To begin with, the warm — well, warmish — July weather we had been experiencing for the past few days, gave way to rain and a howling storm. Clouds raced before a screaming wind and were torn to shreds in the teeth of a gale. Occasionally, a pallid sun would peer wanly through the broken rack, but at other times, day became night with thickets and stunted trees looming up briefly, before disappearing once more into the gloom. The rain-wet roofs of distant huts gleamed, corpse-like, then were swallowed again by the mist. Monstrous boughs of oak whipped at our faces. I thought that I had never been in such a God-forsaken place.

The second day, however, was a little better. The weather improved temporarily, and the accommodation which had been commandeered for the night for Gloucester, Albany and their respective households had proved dry and comfortable, if far from luxurious. The shrill whistling of the wind in the roof, like the wailing of lost souls in the upper air, had at first been a deterrent to sleep, but I had been so weary and homesick that nothing could have kept me awake for long. In the morning, while James Petrie brought hot water for his master to wash and shave in, I joined the queue at the outdoor pump and experienced for the first time the snow-broth chill of the crystal-clear water of the north.

A score of other southerners were also cursing its icy numbing of their skin, while they hacked off the night’s stubble as best they could and, like me, cut their chins to pieces. The Scots among us, including Donald Seton and Murdo MacGregor, laughed openly at our discomfiture and derided what they were pleased to call our womanish Sassenach ways. But no one was in a mood to challenge them, and I slipped back into the cottage — one of a cluster in some village whose name I have long since forgotten (if I ever knew it) — and ascended the narrow, twisting staircase to the tiny room under the eaves where Albany and I had passed the night, side by side on a lumpy mattress that I strongly suspected was stuffed with turnips.

James Petrie was still there and had been joined by Davey. The serving man was his usual taciturn self, the bushy eyebrows drawn together in their perpetual frown. But the page was saying something to the duke in the Scots tongue, which I still had not mastered sufficiently to understand more than the odd word here and there. I did think, as I reached the half-open door at the head of the stairs, that I made out the words ‘not needful now’, but I wouldn’t have sworn to it. Albany’s reply, however, seemed to confirm that I had understood aright.

‘Better safe than sorry,’ he answered tersely in English, before raising his eyes to see me standing in the doorway. ‘Roger!’ His greeting, I thought, was something over-hearty, as though he might be genuinely pleased to see me, but the peal of derisive laughter which followed it at once put me in my place. ‘Good God, man! What have you done to your face? Your chin looks as if you’ve been suffering death by a thousand cuts, which, they tell me, is a form of punishment dealt out by the Great Cham of Tartary. Is your hand still shaking after all that wine you drank at supper last night?’

I was incensed.

‘I got precious little wine,’ I snapped, ‘not after your lordship had finished with the bottle, and Murdo and Donald had drunk their share.’

This was true. The duke and his squires had been in riotous mood at the prospect of being almost home and at the bloodless victory that seemed to be handing Albany the crown without one further blow being struck. Yet if Albany’s suspicions really were correct, then one of the five Scots surrounding him must now find himself on the horns of a dilemma; whether or not to proceed with his murderous mission for a king now held captive by his own nobles, or to abandon this waning star and throw in his lot with the rising sun. Of course, there was always the consideration that Fortune was a fickle jade and not to be trusted, so maybe both the duke and I had reason to be still on our guard. (I had not totally dismissed the warning of the ‘Green Man’ and continued to be watchful on my own account however much Albany might try to persuade me that it was someone trying to deflect my attention from himself.)

A messenger arrived from one of the other cottages to say that the Duke of Gloucester would be ready to move on in half an hour, and the pleasantries concerning my cut chin were instantly forgotten in the hustle to be ready in time. Trumpets were already sounding in the camp beyond the village, from the sodden tract of open countryside where the poor devils of the main army had spent a miserable night, so we ate a hurried breakfast of oatmeal cakes and honey and drank cold water from an earthenware jar. We were in the saddle almost as soon as my lord of Gloucester himself, and ahead of some of the other nobles, who emerged from their billets looking bleary-eyed and bad-tempered and wishing themselves at home in England amongst their goose-feather mattresses and linen sheets. Furthermore, with the expedition petering out in this unsatisfactory fashion, there would be no glory and, worse still, no money to be made from ransomed prisoners to swell dwindling domestic coffers. Only Albany seemed — understandably — to be in high spirits as we moved forward along what Davey condescendingly informed me was an old Pictish road, in places not much more than a deer track curling, snake-like, beside a bubbling stream. Beyond the rush and spill of water, a pine forest rose, thunderous in the early morning light, and I pitied the foot soldiers as the advance guard hacked its way through scrubland and brakes of gorse.

It occurred to me, as I rode in Albany’s wake, that in all the upheaval of the last two days, I had forgotten that strange little conversation between him and the Duke of Gloucester on that last evening outside Berwick. At least, the strangeness had been all on the latter’s side. What, I wondered, had been in Prince Richard’s mind that he had enquired so closely about the probable fate of Albany’s nephews once Albany was king? In all probability, nothing; and yet I had to own to a totally unjustified feeling of unease in which the memory of King Edward as I had seen him at Fotheringay — a very ill man by the look of things — played a part. I recalled that for a fleeting second I had considered Edward of Rouen not merely sick, but dying. I had then dismissed the notion as he had roused himself to some display of his old vigorous self; but now I recollected the effort he had been forced to make to do so …

I caught myself up short. What was I saying? That Edward, the fourth of that name, was a dying man? That his heir was a twelve-year-old boy who might be king in the very near future? That Prince Richard …?

I took a deep, shaken breath and slammed my mind shut against the half-formed thought. It was an idea not to be entertained for a single moment. This man with whom I shared my birthday I knew to be an honourable, upright man and a loyal friend once a person had won his trust. And in all the vicissitudes of King Edward’s colourful life, Gloucester had been the brother who remained at his side, who had never betrayed him, who loved him with an unwavering devotion. And yet …

And yet — the thought would insist on intruding — it was common knowledge that he hated the Queen’s family with a passion that had only increased since the execution of his brother, George of Clarence. And the Prince of Wales was more Woodville than Plantagenet if the rumours were true.

In fairness, how could the boy not be? Unlike his younger brother, the Duke of York, Prince Edward had been brought up in his own household at Ludlow, on the Welsh marches, under the tutelage of his maternal uncle, Earl Rivers, now riding a little ahead of me and conversing in his free and easy manner with his brother, Edward. A very popular man was the earl, but a Woodville to his fingertips, wedded to the interests of his sister, the queen, and to those of all the rest of the large Woodville clan, whose members were notoriously devoted to one another …

‘You’re daydreaming, Roger! Keep alert, man!’

Albany’s voice cut across my reverie, recalling me to my duty, but for once, I was grateful for the reprimand rather than resentful; glad to abandon the path down which my thoughts had been leading me and return to the world of sanity and common sense. The Duke of Gloucester’s enquiries concerning the possible fate of Albany’s nephews had been for some perfectly proper purpose unknown to me.

‘My lord.’

‘You’re supposed to be guarding me,’ the duke complained fretfully, his sunny mood of an hour ago having apparently turned sour in the meantime.

I should have liked to point out that the necessity he felt for my protection was as variable as a woman’s mind when she’s trying to decide what ribbon to buy to re-trim her Sunday gown. But I held my tongue. I realized that I needed Albany as much as he needed me, for I was now in a strange and foreign country, hundreds of miles from home, where language and customs were totally alien to me and where Albany was my only friend. Or, at least, the only person who cared what happened to me. It’s true that I was surrounded by fellow Englishmen, but not one of them (the Duke of Gloucester was far too preoccupied to spare me even a passing thought) cared a jot for my welfare or what might be my fate.

A mile or so further on, the advance party drew to a halt so that the riders could water their horses. I led my cob to the edge of the chattering stream and knelt down amongst the quivering rushes that bordered it, cupping my hands in order to drink, myself. The ice-cold water felt like silk, easing my parched throat and, when I had splashed it over my face, the smarting of the cuts on my lacerated chin. The day was turning warm (or warmer than it had been). Somewhere overhead a bird voiced its enchantment and the track stretching ahead of us glittered whitely under the morning sun, burnishing the tall tree trunks on the opposite bank. It sparked suddenly among the branches, dazzling my eyes …

For a second or two, I was blinded and while I stood blinking, trying to clear my sight, someone thrust something into my hand. I whirled about, but there were too many people and animals around for me to distinguish anyone clearly. I grabbed the nearest person, one of the Marquis of Dorset’s men judging by his silver and pink livery.

‘Did you see who gave me this?’ I demanded, waving my closed fist and still not sure as yet what ‘this’ was.

The fellow gave me a haughty stare, as befitted a retainer of the king’s stepson accosted by a nobody like myself. He did not deign to reply, so I asked one or two other people, but no one had seen anything. And they all plainly considered me mad to think that they might have done so. No one was interested.

Frustrated and angry, I eventually opened my hand to discover what it was that I’d been given, and found it to be a scrap of parchment with the single word ‘Beware’ written on it. I stared at it for a moment or two before tossing it into the water and watching it float away downstream. I almost plunged after it to grab it back, but decided to let it go. Someone was trying to make a fool of me.

Our lords and masters were now up in the saddle again and ready to move. I mounted the cob and thought savagely that once I was free of this whole mad adventure I would never willingly undertake a journey on horseback again. I was saddle-sore and weary, aching in places I hadn’t even known existed in my previous life. For that, more and more, was how I felt; as if I had died without knowing it, and for my sins been sent to hell.

Davey came to find me.

‘My lord’s asking for you. He says to keep up.’

‘What’s he afraid of? That I’ll run away?’

‘Perhaps.’

‘Tell me why he should care.’

The page shrugged. ‘He must have told you that himself.’

‘But do you know?’

Davey looked round at me and I thought I saw a momentary awareness at the back of his eyes. But it vanished on the instant, leaving those violet-blue orbs as blank and expressionless as two pebbles.

Again, that worm of unease gnawed at my guts; and again, I dismissed it as nonsense.

I forced my way through the press of squires and body servants to Albany’s side to find him in heated altercation with Earl Rivers. Well, perhaps not heated: Anthony Woodville was too gentlemanly a man to raise his voice, but his tone and expression were both politely adamant.

‘His Grace says no, my lord. You must be at his side when he enters Edinburgh.’

‘And so I shall be,’ Albany answered hotly. ‘Roslin lies only a few miles west of here and a mere seven or so miles south of the capital. It would take me and my household half a day, maybe less, to ride there and back. I wish to pray at the chapel for God’s blessing on my enterprise. Is that so much to ask?’

‘Is there a chapel there?’ The earl looked faintly interested. ‘I’ve never heard of it.’

‘Probably not.’ Albany sounded defensive for some reason or another. ‘It was built less than forty years ago by a distant kinsman of a very dear friend of mine; by the last Sinclair Earl of Orkney.’

Earl Rivers, who had the reputation of being an extremely devout man (rumour had it that he even wore a penitential hair shirt beneath his splendid clothes) still shook his head regretfully.

‘I’m sorry, my lord, but His Grace of Gloucester is not to be moved on this. No one, above all, not yourself, is to leave his train. You of all people must know that we are within striking distance of Edinburgh, and although Prince Richard assumes that no resistance will be offered — not in the present circumstances — he cannot be certain, and will take no chances. Moreover, your safety is essential. He dare not risk your capture while on this expedition to … to Roslin, was that the name? And he does not wish, at this juncture, to spare an armed escort to go with you. Besides — ’ the king’s brother-in-law raised slightly satirical eyebrows — ‘there must be plenty of other shrines at which you can offer up prayers for the success of this venture. Scotland is surely not so pagan a country that it is devoid of chapels and churches?’

‘Of course not.’ Albany tried to look affronted, although there were times when I suspected him of being unorthodox in many of his religious views. (I had endeavoured, on several occasions, to draw him out on the subject by voicing a few of my own doubts and fears, but he had always refused to play my game, frustrating me with a quip or some light rejoinder.) ‘It’s just,’ he continued, ‘that I have a special fondness for the chapel at Roslin. I feel that to beg God’s blessing there, will …’ He broke off, looking flustered.

‘Bring you good luck?’ the earl finished for him, and permitted himself a small, cynical smile.

‘Oh well!’ Albany said hastily. ‘If my Cousin Gloucester refuses his permission, so be it. There will be time enough for a visit once we are settled in Edinburgh. And when I am king …’ He broke off, shrugging.

‘Of course.’ Anthony Woodville inclined his handsome head. ‘I will inform His Grace of your compliance with his wishes.’

‘I’ll do it myself,’ Albany snapped. ‘There’s no need for your lordship to constitute himself my errand boy. Roger! Davey!’ And the duke drove the bay horse, Pegasus, forward, pricked by a cruel spur.

The page and I followed as best we could and the two squires followed us. It was only then that I realized all three had been listening intently to the conversation between Albany and Earl Rivers; and seemed, judging by the discontented expressions on their faces, to be as disappointed by the thwarting of their visit to the chapel as their master himself. And for the hundredth time, I marvelled at Albany’s perversity; at his willingness to place himself in a position where he could so easily be at the mercy of the suspected assassin amongst them. But then again, there was safety in numbers, and I would have been with him.

For what that was worth.

It was the last day of July and we reached Edinburgh towards evening.

The sun was just beginning to set, the clouds thinning to vapour trails and mackerel shoals in the rapidly cooling sky. And there, perched high above us — so high it looked impossible to reach — was the castle, like some giant eagle’s eyrie on its impregnable rock.

I sat astride my horse, mouth open, staring upwards, just as the soldiers, ordered to set up camp in the valley below, were also gaping.

Albany smote me on the back.

‘A sight, eh, Roger?’

‘How-how do you get up there?’ I managed at last.

‘Oh, it’s not impossible, nor so difficult as it looks. It’s true that the north and south faces of the rock are well nigh vertical and almost impossible to scale, and the same, to a lesser extent, goes for the western side. But we shall approach from the east, through the town, where the ascent is gentler.’

He spoke with the confidence of a native, as he had every right to do having spent a great part of his life in the city. And no doubt he had advised the Duke of Gloucester and his captains to that effect, for the sun was setting ahead of us, going down in ribbons of flame as we prepared to lodge for the night at the monastery outside the city walls, beyond the eastern gate. This, Davey informed me, having constituted himself my guide, was the Abbey of the Holy Rood, founded by King David I and granted to the Augustinian Canons in the twelfth century.

‘On a day which should have been devoted to fasting and prayer, the king decided instead to go hunting, but was knocked from his horse by the maddened stag he was pursuing. While he lay unconscious and close to death, the king saw a vision of the stag with a cross between its antlers and heard a heavenly voice telling him to build a religious house on the spot where the accident had happened. He promised and his life was spared. As well he did,’ the page ended flippantly, ‘as we are thus provided with our night’s lodging before entering the city tomorrow.’

Albany, whom neither of us had heard approach, cuffed Davey smartly over one ear.

‘Enough of that kind of talk,’ he said sharply. ‘You’re entering the House of God. Remember it!’

Davey stammered an apology and slid away to attend to his duties, while Murdo MacGregor came to conduct his master to his room in the guest house, where the Duke of Gloucester was already lodged together with members of his immediate household. The abbey’s accommodation was restricted and the rest of the nobles had been obliged to have tents and pavilions raised in the lee of the great crag which rose behind it. And yet again on this fantastic journey, I found myself, thanks to Albany, housed in better state — within the comfort of four walls and lying on a goose-feather mattress — than my superiors. It would be something to remember in old age, I thought, and to tell my children (if they were the slightest bit interested) when I was a greybeard, sitting in the chimney corner. If, that is, my children were well-enough-to-do to possess chimneys.

But this sudden recollection of my family, so carefully suppressed for so long, hit me like a blow across the heart and made me want to turn tail and run. But run where? I was hundreds of miles from home and everything familiar, in a hostile land of beetling crags and crowding forests of twisted birch and towering pine. We had ridden through one such wood only an hour or so previously, where the pillared trunks had closed about us, and where dense undergrowth of scrub and stunted bushes had thinned in places to reveal the dark, slinking shapes of wolves. Carpets of cranberry and last winter’s leaves had deadened the noise of the horses’ hooves; had, indeed, deadened all noise as men and riders were engulfed by the flood-tide of green. The road had cut, like some gloomy cathedral aisle, straight through the heart of the trees, and I had found myself whispering, as though fearing to desecrate a holy place — or some pagan shrine! This was a countryside as inimical to me as the Waste Land of the Arthurian legends. To set myself adrift in it would be to court madness or death.

I became aware of Albany watching me as though he knew what I was thinking. He was being undressed by James Petrie, who must have entered the cell-like room without my realizing it.

The duke gave his sudden short bark of laughter.

‘You were in another of your reveries, Roger.’ He eyed me narrowly. ‘Or was it more than that?’

I began to get ready for bed myself, which I did by the simple process of stripping down to my shirt, peeing in the chamber-pot and then waiting respectfully for Albany to get between the rough linen sheets before following suit.

‘I don’t know what Your Highness means.’

The duke, clad in a soft woollen nightshift, waved at James Petrie to be gone, but listened for the click of the latch as the door closed behind his henchman before speaking again.

‘You were out of your body, Roger, I’ll swear to it. What were you seeing?’

‘In the sense you mean, nothing, my lord!’ I spoke with suppressed violence. What could I say to convince him that I did not have, had never had, the ‘sight’? ‘If I was lost in thought, I crave Your Grace’s pardon, but I was thinking — seeing, if you like, but only in my mind’s eye — my own people, my own patch of ground.’

It seemed for a moment or two as if he might take issue with me on the subject, as he had done earlier, but then he shrugged and turned away to use the chamber-pot before climbing into bed.

Thankfully, I got in, also.

But Albany was not yet disposed to sleep in spite of a long, hard and wearisome day in the saddle. He sat up, hugging his knees.

‘You don’t care for this country of mine,’ he said accusingly.

‘I find it strange, my lord. Wild, untamed. Even, if you’ll forgive my plain speaking, somewhat barbarous.’

To my relief, he was not offended. In fact, the description seemed to please him. He smiled.

‘Full of hobgoblins and witches, eh? You hear echoes of a much older religion?’

I hastened to disclaim. ‘I didn’t mean to imply that Scotland was not a Christian country, Your Grace.’

‘No, of course not.’ His tone was suave, but he gave me a sharp, sidelong, bright-eyed look. ‘But then, in your own western part of England, you have many pagan beliefs, do you not? The Old Ones in their hollow hills; the Druids; Mithraism, the worship of the Bull; the Great Goddess, Mother of the Earth …’

‘These heresies did exist once,’ I admitted.

‘But no longer?’

There was an urgent rap on the bedchamber door. I heaved a sigh of relief as the latch was lifted even before Albany had time to call ‘Come in!’

‘What the devil-?’ he was demanding furiously, as Donald Seton fell on one knee beside the bed, but checked as he looked into the squire’s white face. ‘What is it? What’s happened?’