Dagger in the Crown (Tam Eildor mystery no.1) Read online

  Janet nodded. 'Aye, that was your idea, but ye didna reckon she'd think different and make a perfect nuisance of herself, following ye all over Europe.'

  Bothwell shuddered at the memory. 'She wouldna want to kill me, that's for sure. The woman was frantic with love and lust for me. She did nothing but weep over me because I didna make love to her.'

  Janet smiled sympathetically. 'Be thankful she has taken herself back to Norway.' She considered him tenderly. 'Poor Anna, mad for love of ye,' she said, repeating his words and drawing his head down to hers. 'I can well believe it. And I ken the reason why,' she whispered with a sigh.

  Taking her hungrily in his arms again, Bothwell dismissed Anna Throndsen, her brief tearful presence in his life now reduced to occasional guilty thoughts of the unacknowledged son she had borne him. Five-year-old William, abandoned and living with his grandmother, Lady Morham, at her home near Haddington.

  Pregnant a second time shortly after following him to Scotland, Anna was determined to be presented to the Queen as Countess of Bothwell. Equally determined to be rid of her, Bothwell packed her off home. The ship could have sailed to hell for all he cared, but Norway-bound it called at Lerwick, where by way of consolation she might visit her favourite sister, Dorothy, wed to a Shetland merchant.

  He remembered her whining and weeping, imploring for the love he could not give in person, in long, tortuous letters and how that first pregnancy with William had made her more lustful than ever.

  For most men that would have been an added attraction, but Bothwell was finding her increasingly repulsive. As she wailed at being left alone and afraid in their Brussels lodging, he had made for her protection a small but deadly jewelled dagger.

  Vaguely recalling its design, he had a sickening idea that this might well be the very same weapon, briefly glimpsed, that Will Fellows had snatched from the mysterious woman's hand.

  With so many imponderables in the Queen's future, Bothwell could do without the added anxiety of continually glancing over his shoulder for a vengeful woman's dagger, poised ready to strike. For his peace of mind, Will Fellows must be found, the dagger recovered, whatever the cost, and this mysterious woman tracked down. Even if it meant asking for Tam Eildor's assistance to have the matter speedily dealt with.

  Meanwhile, he was greatly relieved to have rumour confirmed that the court was moving to Stirling Castle. By the Queen's command he was to arrange the baby prince James's baptism.

  In Peffermill House, Bothwell's servant and valet 'French' Paris was considering his master's formal wardrobe in anticipation of resuming their travels. As was normal, rumour had reached the servants' ears of the move to Stirling with the speed of light, long before the court was officially acquainted with the news.

  When his master had looked in last night on his way to Mistress Beaton to ask if all was well, Paris omitted to mention one trifling incident regarding a meeting with a lady in a local tavern.

  True, the light was dim, but not so his hearing, nor his sense of smell, and her perfume told him this was no tavern whore but a fine lady. Impressed that she should favour him with her company, for he was a vain fellow and thought much of his own good looks, he was delighted when she responded with alacrity to his sly suggestion that they adjourn immediately to his master's rooms at Peffermill.

  Alas for his hopes of romantic dalliance. Before he could even undo his doublet, he was overcome with the effects of the ale he had been drinking. He awoke next morning to a headache of mammoth proportions. Staggering into his master's bedchamber, he found that the lady had gone and the trunk which accompanied the Earl of Bothwell on all his travels had had its lock forced.

  Sweating with fear, Paris was relieved to see that family papers and state documents, as well as the jewel casket, were intact. He relocked the trunk with a thankful prayer. All the thief had taken seemed to be a few letters, dismissed by Bothwell as the passionate outpourings of a tedious lady whom Paris had never met.

  They would never be missed.

  Chapter Four

  Sunday 1 December 1566. Early morning

  Tam Eildor was also alerted by the Mass bell. Since he had no knowledge of whether he was Catholic or Protestant, he closed his eyes again before opening one of them apprehensively. Never quite sure what he would see when he awoke each morning, his feelings of transience were part of his present memory loss.

  It was with some relief he recognized the dark raftered room two storeys above Mistress Beaton's apartments in Craigmillar Castle's west tower, its sole light afforded by a large slit, like an inverted keyhole, installed so that the unfortunate servants did not die of suffocation while they slept.

  Tam was fortunate. Servants were up at five, to light fires, carry ewers of water up a series of spiral staircases and attend to the demands of royal residents and lesser but equally demanding courtiers.

  And if unhappy servants had strength or imagination enough, they might congratulate themselves and thank God in his mercy that their lives evolved around a splendid building of stone and mortar instead of a thatched, smoky, windowless hovel.

  Tam was sure the present discomfort bothered him only because he had known better in that life which still eluded him. He might have brief flashes of what was future, but what he really wanted to see was his recent past.

  You can learn to live with anything, he told himself firmly. Survival is the key, no matter what. And doubtless some day a great rush of memory would bring it all back to him.

  He shivered. God knows, there were enough draughts circulating through the loose stones. The view was magnificent from the keyhole window but was not for servants to waste time upon. Difficult enough for himself, over six foot tall, to scramble on to a rickety stool and be rewarded with a glimpse of the walled garden. Its central fishpond was a coy innovation of Simon Preston's ambitious rebuilding programme in 1549, laid out in the shape of the letter ‘P', the top loop forming a tiny ornamental island.

  Beyond the curtain wall, a heavily crowded wooded bank and the ruins of a long-forsaken medieval quarry from which the castles of Craigmillar and Edinburgh had been built. Winter had bleached the landscape, reflecting a sunless bitter day, a dead world, a grey lifeless corpse, but undeterred the Queen emerged from the side of the castle, Mass having been celebrated in her private chapel.

  She was accompanied by her four maids-in-waiting - Livingstone, Fleming, Seton and Beaton - who had been with her since childhood, following her to France and back again to Scotland. All shared the same Christian name - Marie - and, usually inseparable, were collectively known at court as 'the Queen's Maries'.

  Now they walked briskly towards the walled garden, all attired in warm fur-lined hooded capes and preceded by a dozen yapping lapdogs. The Queen was distinguished by her height. Deep in conversation with Livingstone, the first of the Maries to wed and a mother within months of her royal mistress.

  Tam's heart gave a now familiar lurch as he recognized Marie Seton, the smallest and slightest of the group. She was not the most beautiful, but it was not merely looks that had drawn him to her. There was something irresistible in her smile that gave her face sudden radiance, something that warmed his heart, echoing other elusive memories.

  They had first met when he had helped her recapture the Queen's favourite parrot. Marooned on the fishpond's small island, it had shrieked at them from a rose bush, frustrated that with clipped wings it could not fly.

  Tam had gallantly leapt across the intervening water. The evil-tempered bird, which took delight even on a good day in nipping any mortal flesh, was near at hand. Now in a rage, he rewarded his rescuer with some angry shrieks and severe pecks about the wrist, to which the rose thorns added their contribution.

  Tam, however, was quite oblivious of pain. He had looked into Marie Seton's admiring eyes, had known he was the one who was truly lost.

  The Queen had hurried towards them. Dear God, how young she was, Tam had thought, too pale and frail-looking since her illness to hold a kingdom
in her hands. Six foot tall, such height in a woman and a queen should have been regal and commanding, but red-gold hair and golden eyes turned beauty into the brittle fragility of Venetian glass. The Stuart eyes and a slight weakness about the chin hinted at indecision and vulnerability, suggesting a less stern calibre than her wily cousin Elizabeth of England. A mere lass, to be at the mercy of power-crazed Scottish nobles.

  As Tam restored the parrot Pierrot with a deep bow, the Queen's chiding turned to tinkling laughter. Thanking him, she gave Tam her hand to kiss, a long-fingered thin white hand, flower-like, hardly adequate to wield the ruthless sceptre of state.

  When he later told Janet of his encounter, she had laughed. 'All the good young men fall in love with her, ye ken. Want to advise and protect her. And she does love a well-set-up lad, as ye'd guess from Lord Darnley.'

  Now, observing the little group far below, Tam came to a sudden decision. The moment was opportune, it gave him a chance to question Marie Seton about the Spanish lady Will Fellows had seen walking with her in the gardens. Hastily, he threw on his cloak and ran down the spiral staircase in time to meet the ladies, as they emerged from the walled garden.

  He bowed low and, to his delight, Marie curtsied, drew him aside and whispered, 'Her Grace was very pleased with you for rescuing the horrible Pierrot, Master Eildor. She wished to hear all about you, a stranger to the court. She asked did you sing, play the lute.'

  When Tam replied that he did not play an instrument but that he thought he could sing a little, Marie was pleased.

  ‘Her Grace hates this cold dreary weather. Will you sing for us this afternoon, Master Eildor?'

  The unexpected honour and the possibilities it offered delighted Tam. He bowed, stammering, 'It will be my pleasure, Mistress Seton.'

  'Come at three of the clock then. Her Grace will enjoy some entertainment. She longs for laughter these days.'

  There would not be much of that about once the court reached Stirling, where her sullen lout of a husband would join them, in time for his son's christening. The Queen had tried, perhaps not very hard, to persuade him to join her at Craigmillar, but he had refused and retired to sulk in his father's Glasgow house. From all accounts, the Queen would be well rid of this disagreeable young man with, Tam had heard, a taste for pretty young boys as well as serving maids. According to Janet, he would tumble anything that came his way.

  'When Darnley is hot with lust,' she said sourly, 'no one is safe from him, male or female.'

  Such behaviour in royal courts was by no means new. Many monarchs and their princes were well known to have tastes considered unnatural and regrettable for humbler men - men whose idea of gratification was no more than a quick tumble, whether for lust or in the sterner duty of procreation.

  Tam found it difficult to imagine the delicate-seeming Queen he had just met as a lusty bedmate and he wondered out loud if word of Darnley's peculiarities had by now reached the sharp ears of John Knox.

  'It would surely give him more concern than the Queen's Masses. Do you think she knows?' he said to Janet.

  'She must by now. But at the beginning she was so in love with him. I wish you could have seen her. So radiant and happy. He is beautiful, or was - and when he wooed her, she thought herself in paradise. Then she awoke, poor lady, and found herself in hell with the devil instead,' Janet had added with a shudder.

  A sudden darkening of the already grey sky indicated a storm more immediate than Darnley was heading their way. Ahead of them the Queen and her ladies had quickened their steps towards the shelter of the castle.

  Tam put a delaying hand on Marie's arm. 'Stay a moment!'

  She stopped, looked anxiously at her retreating companions and then turned to him, smiling. 'What is your wish, Master Eildor?'

  He had no idea how to broach the subject. How do you say, 'An unknown lady, possibly Spanish, tried to murder Lord Bothwell. His rescuer, a servant, possibly a gardener called Will Fellows, saw her walking in the garden with you. Tell me what you know about her.'

  'Seton - come! At once. Her Grace awaits you.' The shrill command was from Fleming.

  Tam was spared. With a sigh he bowed to Marie, held her hand to his lips. 'We will talk this afternoon,' he said.

  She curtsied. 'I trust so, Master Eildor.' Her smile was an invitation.

  But for the moment he had another plan. Earlier he had observed, close to the fishpond, men at work repairing a stone wall. Retracing his steps, he came upon them unloading carts of malodorous night soil into what was to be a sweeter-smelling rose garden.

  An old gardener busy with a spade gave him a toothless grin. 'By Her Majesty's command,' he said proudly. 'T’will please her to look down on it when she visits the castle in the summer. She keeps us all busy.'

  Listening to the old man, Tam, blessed with excellent long sight, searched for someone of the youth's description under the sacking hoods the men wore. There was one who fitted well Bothwell's description of his rescuer. Tam cut short the gardener's eulogy on rose-growing and with a hasty apology darted towards the boy, who glanced across and, as if aware that he was the target of Tam's approach, vanished around a corner of the castle. Was that Will Fellows, behaving like one who wished to avoid a confrontation?

  Tam shouted, 'Stop!' and the gardeners also stopped working and looked suspiciously at this upper servant from the court, running through their ranks in a less dignified manner than suited his scholar's cloak and velvet bonnet.

  'What ails ye, sir?' shouted the old man.

  'I thought I saw someone. Know you Will Fellows?'

  'Will Fellows,' the gardener mouthed slowly. 'I ken none o' that name.'

  'A young lad, about fourteen or so. A handsome lad, well set up.' Tam paused hopefully.

  This raised foolish grins, some coughing and meaningful glances, which brought a flush of annoyance and embarrassment to Tam's face. Obviously aware of royal pursuit by Lord Darnley, they misunderstood his interest and intention. And possibly to further protect the lad, heads were shaken all round. Heads down, work hastily resumed. The subject was closed. No one knew Will Fellows or whatever his name was.

  Tam turned away briskly. One of the younger men left his companions and came after him. 'I've heard tell of a man in charge of the woodcutters, name of Ben Fellows. Over yonder.' He pointed downhill, in the direction of the wood's ruined quarry. 'Maybe the lad you seek is kin to him.'

  'I thank you,' said Tam, but the man lingered meaningfully until Tam realized that a reward was expected for this information and thrust a coin into his hand.

  His rapid departure was accompanied by some badly stifled mirth. He pretended not to hear the jeering comments directed at him.

  Admitted to the Queen's audience chamber that afternoon, Tam was cheered by the sight of a roaring log fire. In keeping with the wintry weather outside, gone were the formal court gowns, the fashionable Spanish farthingales. These had been replaced by long-sleeved woollen kirtles and tight bodices with the neck of the shift underneath gathered into a ruff. Satin slippers had lost favour to ones made of softest deerskin and woollen stockings. The 'Sunday best' winter dress of any Edinburgh merchant's wife, it would have gladdened the heart of even John Knox, who raged at his Queen as a model of extravagance and depravity.

  Today her only extravagance was her jewellery, which she loved. Many pieces she had inherited from her mother, Mary de Guise, and others she had brought with her from France. In addition to the gold crucifix, she wore her favourite Scottish Tay pearls and drop earrings.

  The atmosphere was to be of friendly informality. The Queen handed Tam a piece of music and sat down in readiness at the virginal to accompany him. Shyly at first, but with growing confidence. Tam managed the song the Queen had written, much to her delight.

  He was pleased to find her accomplished and with a natural gift for putting words to music. As she played with ease, smiling and lost in a happier world, a romantic ballad of love lost and found again, the years as a sad widow and abused wi
fe seemed to disappear, revealing a carefree girl awaiting her first experience of a man's love.

  As their eyes met, in that languid smile Tam thought how easily a man could become besotted by this lovely frail woman, aware of the dangers seen and unseen that beset her. Many men before and after him would be overwhelmed by the desire to protect her, with their lives if necessary.

  As the sounds of the music they had made together died away, their efforts were greeted by applause from the four Maries and the Queen indicated a seat where her ladies were gathered. In this newer tower of the castle, the window was larger and commanded a magnificent view towards the city of Edinburgh.

  This was the sight the Queen encountered when she opened her eyes each morning, the castle on its rock, where her son was born, dominating the skyline. The great palace of Holyrood with its recent terrors hidden by the great bulk of Arthur's Seat, a long-extinct volcano, so learned men claimed, a place of sinister legends and magic.

  The four Maries were laughing as they dealt out playing cards. Tam recognized primero, a game for gamblers more associated with the barrack room than the Queen’s chamber on a Sunday afternoon.

  He was considering how John Knox would have reacted to this latest piece of Sabbath-breaking debauchery when, aware of his interest, Marie Fleming, soon to marry William Maitland of Lethington, the Queen’s Secretary of State, asked, ‘Do you also tell fortunes from the cards, Master Eildor?’

  He laughed and shook his head, unwilling to commit himself.

  Fleming frowned across at Marie Beaton. ‘You told us your aunt Janet said he might.’

  ‘I did not,’ Beaton protested, flustered and going rather red in the face, embarrassed at being caught out with Branxholm gossip about Tam Eildor.

  The Queen, conscious of the sudden tension, smiled. ‘Beaton is trying to say what we have all been led to believe, Master Eildor.’