Kate Sedley - The Green Man

‘Albany regards you lot as his family?’ I asked in disbelief.

‘In the loosest sense of the word,’ Donald intervened hastily. ‘You’re not a fool Roger. You know what Murdo means.’

‘All five of you?’ I persisted. ‘All of the late Earl of Mar’s servants?’

‘Why not? We’ve been with him some years now, first in France and then in England.’

‘I’ll tell you why not,’ I said angrily, suddenly standing still and forcing them to turn and face me. ‘Are you unaware that Albany made a special petition to King Edward to have me as a bodyguard because he was afraid that one of you five was an assassin in the pay of King James?’

There was a momentary silence during which I could almost feel Donald and Murdo exercising all their self-will not to glance at one another. Then the former gave an awkward laugh.

‘No, no! You’re mistaken, Roger. What my lord feared was an assassin among his English allies. He knew that there were some who violently disapproved of King Edward’s plan to make him King of Scotland.’

‘That, too,’ I agreed. ‘But take my word for it that he suspected one of you, as well. The reason he asked for my services was because he knew me and knew also that he could trust me. At least,’ I added, ‘that was what I was given to understand.’

Murdo grinned, visibly relaxing and throwing a friendly arm about Donald’s shoulders.

‘It would seem that my lord has by now discovered his mistake. Nothing’s happened to him, has it? He’s realized that he can trust us, after all.’

‘There were at least two attempts on Albany’s life,’ I suggested, and waited for their reactions.

‘Perpetrated by the English, undoubtedly,’ Donald said, without even the flicker of an eyelid to hint that he might be lying.

Or was he simply being truthful? How could I tell? So I returned to my first bone of contention.

‘None of this explains my lord’s desire for me to accompany you all to this place — what’s it called again?’

‘Roslin.’ It was Murdo who spoke this time. ‘And we’ve told you already. The duke regards you as one of his intimate servitors. One of us. One of the “family”. And until you … go home again, you will be expected to obey him. I feel certain His Grace of Gloucester will say so.’

I also thought this entirely possible, Prince Richard being a man of his word. I could see no way to get out of this unwanted expedition, and could only pray that a very few more days would bring Anglo-Scottish deliberations to a satisfactory conclusion.

‘Look, I need to go for a shit,’ I said. I had to shake these two off. ‘There’s no need for you to accompany me. I know where the latrines are.’ And I moved purposefully away. Thankfully, they made no move to follow me.

‘We’ll see you at dinner in the hall,’ Donald shouted after me.

It had occurred to me to quiz them on the morning’s doings in the Grassmarket, but common sense told me that I should get no useful information out of either one of them. They had been taken to John Buchanan’s house to search for the missing evidence, and they had found it. That was probably all they knew. Or wanted to know if it came to that. But I still found it hard to believe that it could have been discovered so pat, just as though it had been placed on the table for all the world to see. There was something that I was missing; something that my dream of the previous night had tried to tell me, but which I was too tired, or too stupid, to see.

I passed the latrines without a second glance: my bowels were not bothering me for the moment. Instead, I made my way to Saint Margaret’s Chapel and went inside. Fresh candles had been lit in the candlesticks on the altar, illuminating the effigy in its niche and showing up the fact that it badly needed repainting. The yellow and blue robe was dingy, spotted here and there with mould, and the gold of the halo tarnished. But I doubted that this was out of disrespect for the saint, ancestress of both the English and Scottish royal lines, but because money was not in plentiful supply at a court where its king had lavished so much of its hard-come-by wealth on his numerous favourites. But that was over now with King James in captivity and his minions dead, hanged from the Lauder Bridge like common felons.

I had the chapel to myself and went down on my knees in front of the altar, but feeling at something of a loss. Although paying lip service to them as a good Christian should, secretly I had little direct contact with the saints, preferring to talk straight to God. (I could never see the point of communicating with the middle-men and — women. And how could I be sure that my messages got passed on?) But this morning, as on my first visit, I appealed for Margaret’s help in her capacity as a descendant of the Wessex kings, direct in line from Alfred the Great and from Cerdic, first self-appointed ruler of the West Saxons. But it was only after I had also had a swift word with my fellow west-countrymen, Saint Dunstan and Saint Patrick, that it occurred to me to wonder exactly what it was that I was praying for. Help, obviously; but why? What was it that was troubling me?

For something was trouble me, even though both my missions seemed to be successfully accomplished. I had seen Albany safe to Scotland; and my brief investigation into the facts surrounding Master Sinclair’s arrest had culminated — although no particular thanks to me — in the production of the necessary evidence to assure his acquittal on the charge of murder. Self-defence would be his plea, and would undoubtedly be accepted. So why was I bothering the saints?

Well, for a start, there was a growing feeling that Albany had used me as a cat’s-paw, not once, but twice, yet without any evidence or any solid reasons to bolster the conviction. Secondly, the arrest of John Buchanan particularly worried me.

I got up from my knees, then sat down on the dusty floor, propping my back against the nearest stretch of wall, trying to sort my thoughts. I fixed my gaze on the figure of the saint, but after a disturbed night, drowsiness overcame me. The painted face became at first a blur, but then gradually assumed the living features of the woman. She held out both hands, one holding a bunch of herbs and the other a fruit, a quince as had been offered to me in my dream by Maria Beton … I jerked awake, straightening my back with a suddenness that jarred my spine.

Quince jelly! Recipes!

What was the point of Maria Beton and Mistress Callender exchanging recipes if the former could neither read nor write? Yet both had mentioned the fact, so why the lie? Why the pretence that the housekeeper was illiterate? I recalled the gaoler’s son leaving the Sinclair house as I approached it the previous day. Had he been sent by her master to warn her of my impending visit and of the role she must play? I had to be convinced that she could not have known the contents of the diary because she could not read them …

Another thought occurred to me like a flash of lightning across a summer sky. She could also have written the diary. For whatever reason Rab Sinclair had murdered his wife, for whatever reason he had wanted her dead, he had to have a story that would exonerate him in the eyes of the law. My guess was that the killing had been unpremeditated, and Mistress Callender’s inopportune arrival had caught him literally red-handed. The story of the diary was concocted hastily between Rab and Mistress Beton, but she had needed time to write it. And after that, it had to be searched for and dramatically found. But where?

I had been used to supply them with the answer.

I had been used! I had been used! The four words kept thumping around in my head, like a refrain beaten out by drums. The questions followed.