Kate Sedley - The Green Man

‘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.’

I was appalled.

‘My lord, you can’t do this!’ I was moved to protest with greater vehemence than I had ever used, either to him or to anyone in his exalted position. ‘This is sheer folly! You speak as though I have offered you incontrovertible proof of Master Buchanan’s guilt. I haven’t. It’s a theory, nothing more; a theory that might prove to be correct, I grant you, but that’s all. I beg you, don’t persuade yourself that the Grassmarket house holds the answer to this puzzle. You are most likely only storing up disappointment for yourself — and for Master Sinclair — if you do.’

My voice had risen urgently and I discovered to my horror that I was actually thumping with my fist on the table. I broke off and stood nervously awaiting his furious reaction.

Nothing of the sort happened. Albany simply smiled at me; a smile full of pity and condescension.

‘You don’t understand, Roger,’ he said. ‘I have a feeling about this. As soon as you told me that Aline Sinclair could have passed the diary to her brother, I knew it was the truth. Come! You of all people should know what I mean. You have the “sight”. I, too, have these flashes of certainty that amount almost to glimpses of the future. This is such an occasion. Oh, I don’t boast about my gift.’ This was a fact: I couldn’t recall him ever having mentioned it before. He went on, ‘But it’s there, waiting to serve me when it’s needed.’

I hoped I didn’t look as sceptical as I felt.

‘My lord,’ I said desperately, ‘I wish you could disabuse your mind of this belief that I have, or ever have had, the “sight” in the way you mean it. I’ve tried to explain to you several times in the past that what I get are dreams caused by my mind working through sleep and reminding me of facts which my waking self has forgotten. My mother occasionally was gifted with what you are pleased to term the “sight”, when she seemed able to foretell the future, but even so it was not often and rarely of things that were important. She didn’t foresee my father’s death, for instance, when he fell from the ceiling of Wells Cathedral nave. Otherwise, she might have kept him at home that day and prevented it.’

Still smiling, and not at all put out by my insubordinate tone, the duke patted me on the shoulder.

‘I can see that you are ignorant of the manner in which the “sight” operates, Roger. It is not given to us for our own benefit, to advance our own designs, but to promote the wishes of the gods.’

‘The gods?’ I queried nervously, recalling that he had used the same words a short while previously, when the Duke of Gloucester had accused him of blasphemy. ‘What gods, my lord?’

He laughed softly and shrugged. Once again the candlelight rippled across the satin of his doublet, this time turning the scarlet to flame. I had the oddest impression that he had suddenly grown taller, that his head was almost touching the ceiling and that there was a strange aureole of light, like green fire, surrounding his whole body. His eyes, too, whose colour I was normally unaware of, were like two chips of emerald between his narrowed lids …

Albany was gripping me by the shoulders and forcing me into a chair. He was himself again and I noticed that his eyes were in reality a pale, indeterminate blue. Or were they brown? And why couldn’t I be sure?

‘What … What happened?’ I asked.

‘My dear fellow, you very nearly fainted,’ Albany said and smiled. ‘I’ve been working you too hard. You’ve been running about the whole day and I daresay you haven’t even had your supper yet. Sit here quietly and I’ll see that food and drink is brought to you. No one will be returning to the Council Chamber this evening. We’ve finished our deliberations for the day.’ His tone had turned sour once more, reminded of his grievances.

But I was not to be deflected by talk of food and rest, although I was feeling in need of both.