Kate Sedley - The Green Man

‘Are you all right, fellow?’ someone asked me, and I recognized the livery of one of Lord Rivers’s men.

I thanked him and said I was. A lie, but at that moment, all I wanted was to be left alone. In any case, the tardy ones amongst us were being elbowed out of the way by the castle servers who were busy dragging the trestles and boards to the centre of the hall and setting up the tables for breakfast. Kitcheners began to bring in food; great platters of oatcakes and huge bowls of porridge. But the mere thought of eating made me feel queasy again. My one thought was to escape into the fresh air.

I was stamping on my second boot when the night’s events suddenly sprang to mind, and I stared around me, ignoring the dizziness that made my head lurch painfully. James Petrie was still there, and Davey, knuckling the sleep from his eyes. But of the two squires there was no sign.

The choice was who to tackle first. In the end, I settled on the page.

‘What happened to you three last night?’ I demanded. ‘Where did you get to?’

Davey opened those great violet-blue eyes of his to their fullest extent.

‘What do you mean, where did we get to?’ His injured innocence was marvellous to behold. ‘We went for a piss, like you.’

‘You were gone for ages,’ I accused. ‘It doesn’t take that long to relieve yourselves.’

‘How would you know how long we were gone? You were asleep when we got back.’

‘Not asleep,’ I snarled through gritted teeth. I swung round on James Petrie who recoiled slightly from the expression on my face. ‘What was in that damn whisky you gave me?’

He gabbled something, giving a swift, bolt-eyed look at Davey who translated his answer as, ‘Nothing! Why should there be? It was just the usquebaugh . It was too strong for you.’ He added of his own accord and with an impertinent grin, ‘You Sassenachs can’t stomach it.’

I started to shake my head, but then thought better of it. ‘No, it was more than that. I went out like a candle being snuffed, and this morning I feel terrible.’

‘Why on earth would Jamie be carrying around a flask of doctored whisky?’ Davey was prepared to argue the point, but I cut him short.

‘Where are Murdo and Donald?’

‘What? Oh … They were up at dawn on my lord’s orders to go to search John Buchanan’s house in the Grassmarket. They’ve taken a contingent of soldiers with them to make sure he doesn’t resist and that the job’s done thoroughly.’ At the mention of Buchanan’s name there was another fleeting exchange of glances between him and James Petrie. ‘Are you going to sit down to breakfast?’ Davey continued peevishly. ‘If not, would you move? You’re blocking my way.’

I could see that there was little point in remaining any longer. Not only would I get no joy out of either the page or James Petrie, but the clatter of knives and spoons and the general chatter of a hundred or more voices was making normal conversation difficult.

‘Where’s the duke?’ I said, but didn’t bother to wait for an answer.

I knew that Albany had been lodged in David’s Tower, together with the Duke of Gloucester, but my enquiries for him were met by the information that my lord was already up and dressed, in spite of the early hour, and had left the castle some time ago, accompanied by his two body squires. I could guess what that meant: he had gone in person to oversee the ransacking of Master Buchanan’s premises. Cursing under my breath, and trying to ignore the fact that I felt like death, I set out after him. I told myself not to be a fool. I could achieve nothing by trying to dissuade Albany from this course of action. And in any case, he would soon discover his mistake when the diary proved not to be among John Buchanan’s papers.

But I was wrong.

I had barely left the castle precincts when I met the triumphant party returning, Master Buchanan guarded by several stalwart soldiers, arrested, it seemed, on Albany’s say-so for having deliberately suppressed vital evidence. Aline Sinclair’s diary, I was told, had been discovered almost at once among the litter of papers on her brother’s table.

‘And it’s all thanks to you, Roger,’ Albany said, slapping me on the back. I tried to protest, horrified, but the duke wouldn’t have it. ‘Yes, yes! Honour where it’s due. If you hadn’t discovered that Mistress Sinclair had had time to fetch the diary and pass it to her brother on Monday, John Buchanan’s involvement might never have occurred to anyone.’ He waved the diary at me as he spoke, the pages bound together with their blood-red ribbons. ‘This will clear Rab of the charge of murder. I’ve perused the contents and they’re exactly as he described them. The sordid details about Aline and her lover, the different ways they were considering of getting rid of her husband, they’re all here. No jury could possibly convict Rab with this evidence to hand. Having read this, when he saw her pick up the knife, of course he thought she was going to kill him.’

I was bemused. It all seemed too pat, too easy. There hadn’t even been a real search. The diary had just been lying there, on John Buchanan’s table, waiting — practically begging — to be discovered. It didn’t make sense. A man who had been entrusted with an incriminating document would surely have taken pains to hide it away, not leave it where any fool could put his hand on it. Nevertheless, I supposed it could be argued that when Aline passed the diary to her brother, neither of them knew that her husband had found and read it. She was simply acting in response to some sort of premonition; that pricking of the thumbs which we all experience sometime or another.

Yet I still felt uneasy. Looking back on yesterday’s visit to the house in the Grassmarket, I had no recollection of seeing anything on that table tied with red ribbons. It would have leaped to my eye: it was, after all, what I was looking for. I couldn’t have avoided noticing it. Could I?

By this time, we were back in the castle ward and beginning the ascent to the rock’s summit.

‘The rest of the morning’s your own,’ Albany told me, ‘until after dinner. I must visit Rab to tell him the good news and also put this — ’ he waved the diary — ‘in the hands of the City Magistrates. But when dinner’s over, come and find me. We have work to do.’

It was no good asking him, what work. The duke was already gone in a flurry of self-importance, leaving me with Murdo and Donald to watch John Buchanan being marched away. He caught my eye and gave me a filthy look. But he was frightened, too. I felt a surge of guilt and wanted to assure him that his arrest was none of my doing. I turned my back.

I needed to think, but the two squires showed a sudden and unexpected desire for my company, almost, I thought, as if they had been set to guard me; an obviously nonsensical notion.

‘What does the duke want me for this afternoon?’ I asked. ‘Do you know?’

Donald hesitated, as though unsure whether to answer me or not, but Murdo said bluntly, ‘He wants us all to ride with him to Roslin to … to worship at the chapel there and …’

‘And give thanks for our safe return to Scotland after all these years,’ Donald supplied when his companion’s voice faltered. ‘It’s some few miles to the south of Edinburgh. Not far, but I think my lord plans to stay the night. He has a small hunting lodge on the edge of the village.’

I frowned. ‘Why would he want my company? I’m not a returning exile like the rest of you. My services can well be dispensed with. And will be in a few days’ time when the negotiations are completed and I return to England.’

‘Oh, the duke regards you as quite one of the family now,’ Murdo replied smoothly. ‘He would be disappointed if you weren’t present at his thanksgiving.’