I could see, now that it was pointed out to me, and I was able to understand his bitterness. I could see, too, that, whether it had been planned or not, the killing of King James’s favourites and the taking of the king himself into custody had been a shrewd move on the part of the Scots nobles. Furthermore, their offer of a peaceful settlement had rendered Albany valueless to the English.
Donald cleared his throat. ‘My lord!’ He put out a hand as if to grasp his master’s wrist before thinking better of it. ‘My lord!’ he repeated with an urgency I failed to understand. Albany, still looking a little dazed, also failed to grasp his meaning judging by the questioning glance he turned in the squire’s direction. Donald muttered something in the Scots tongue and the duke’s face lightened momentarily.
‘Ah, yes!’ He took a deep breath like a drowning man coming up for air and spoke more cheerfully. ‘Of course!’ But then he hesitated, obviously thinking better of what he had said, and shook his head. ‘That must wait,’ he continued. ‘First, Rab Sinclair must be cleared of this charge against him. I can’t and won’t attend to my own affairs before I see him freed.’
‘But, my lord, what can be done?’ the squire protested. ‘He’s plainly guilty. He was arrested with the knife still in his hand, the body still warm.’
‘If Rab says it was in self-defence, however improbable that may seem, then I for one believe him. His claim must be investigated, and — ’ he turned to me, throwing out his arms in a triumphant gesture — ‘here is the very man to do it!’ Donald eyed me sceptically, but Albany continued enthusiastically, ‘Yes, yes! He has a reputation for being able to solve mysteries and problems. He has even done so for Cousin Gloucester and other people of note.’
He smote me on the back with such vigour that I lost my balance, toppled over on to the bed and decided that, while there, I might as well climb between the sheets again.
‘Your Grace is pleased to joke about it,’ I ventured, praying to God and the Virgin that he would agree.
My luck was out, as I had feared it would be.
‘No joke, Roger.’ Albany got into bed beside me. ‘What foresight on my part to insist on bringing you along. It’s almost as if I had had a premonition.’
‘I thought I was brought to guard you from your enemies,’ I snapped, glancing meaningfully at Donald Seton.
‘Oh, that mainly,’ Albany agreed, adding hurriedly, ‘From those English lords and their hired assassins who desired my death. But I think that now, until I put my own plan into execution and once more become a threat to them, they will consider King Edward’s intention to have me crowned king of Scotland as unlikely to be fulfilled.’ He nodded dismissal to the squire. ‘All right, Donald, you may go. Tell the others what has happened and be ready to accompany me into Edinburgh tomorrow morning, whenever the embassy arrives from the castle and His Grace of Gloucester decides to enter the town. Now, for God’s sake, let’s all get some sleep.’
I don’t know that I slept much, there were too many thoughts crowding my mind, but I can vouch for it that, whatever cares and prospects of potential disappointment were troubling Albany, he slumbered peacefully until daybreak. (I can also vouch for the fact that the monks had fed their noble guests garlic at supper, for the smells which rose from beneath the bedclothes from time to time were of an indescribable pungency.)
I lay awake for at least an hour, staring at the four walls of the austere, cell-like guest-room of Holy Rood Abbey, wondering what this plan of the duke’s was that would ensure his coronation despite the wreckage of his and his English allies’ schemes to seize the Scottish throne in the wake of military conquest and the possible death or capture of his brother. I also lay awake cursing my fate at being pitchforked into a murder mystery that Albany would expect me to solve by exonerating his friend, even though it seemed to be a straightforward case of a husband killing his wife in a fit of — what? Jealousy? Betrayal? Or just a fit of pique because the meat had been undercooked at dinner? (Not such a ridiculous idea as you might think.) I had a few choice words to say to God on the subject, just to let Him know what I thought of the situation, but, as always, He ignored me and let me get on with venting my spleen without vouchsafing any reply. He knew that I knew He would give me His help when it was required.
Having given God this piece of my mind I felt better and commended my soul, and the souls of all those whom I loved, to His care throughout the hours of darkness. After that, I was at last able to sleep until the sounding of trumpets from the camp and the voices of the monks at their devotions — it was the hour of Prime — finally roused me.
Breakfast was a handful of oats, some black bread and a cold sausage in the monks’ kitchen in the company of other low-life like myself, while our masters were, by the smell of things, feasting on bacon collops, honey cakes and the best of the abbey’s home-brewed ale. There was, too, another faint aroma lingering on the air which Murdo MacGregor condescended to inform me was that of the famous ‘water of life’, the ‘usquebaugh’ (whisky we called it in England: we never were any good at getting our tongues round foreign words) that had first come over with the Scots from Ireland and been made here ever since. It was, he said, very good for warming the body, and the monks partook liberally of it to keep themselves warm during the office of Matins and Lauds. I sympathized. I knew from experience that the small hours of the morning can chill one to the marrow in an icy church, with the cold of the flagstones striking up through the bones and sinews.
Long before the abbey bells began to toll the office of Tierce, and before a pale sun was halfway to its zenith, my lord Gloucester, with Albany by his side and a cluster of his chosen nobles at his back, was mounted on his favourite horse, White Surrey, waiting in the Canongate — a borough independent of town or abbey — for the Scots deputation from the castle. I guessed he was none too pleased at the delay, but kept his features schooled to indifference, unlike Earl Rivers and his nephew, the Marquis of Dorset, who grumbled openly about bad manners, and others who were voicing their doubts about the good faith of the Scots. Albany said nothing, torn, no doubt, between resentment at these slurs cast at his countrymen and a rising hope that maybe members of the Scottish Council had changed their minds after all and that a siege would be the order of the day.
But, finally, as the clamour of the bells died away and the chanting of the monks began, trumpets sounded from beyond the city walls and, minutes later, the gates were opened to let a cavalcade of men and horses stream out to welcome in the Duke of Gloucester and his entourage. Heading this company were three men whom Davey Gray immediately identified as Albany’s three half-uncles; the Earls of Atholl and Buchan, two of the chief architects of the coup at Lauder Bridge, and their brother, the Bishop of Moray.
Diplomatic pleasantries, palpably insincere, were duly exchanged, although I noticed that no one on the Scots’ side actually addressed a word to Albany or responded to his greetings. All he received were glances of contempt and acute dislike, and it struck me then that however much a reigning monarch might be reviled, a usurper — or, in this case, a potential usurper — was hated even more. (I recalled that as a child I had heard old men talk about Henry of Bolingbroke’s seizure of the throne from his cousin, King Richard, in the first years of the century, and how his great popularity with the masses had oozed away, turning to resentment after he had assumed the crown.)
At long last, we entered the city, the Duke of Gloucester riding shoulder to shoulder with the Earls of Atholl and Buchan, Albany behind them, side by side with his other uncle, the bishop, who remained tight-lipped and stared straight ahead between his horse’s ears. His nephew’s attempts to engage him in conversation were totally ignored, and after a while, Albany shrugged and gave up trying. But the expression on his face augured no good for his relatives if ever he did become king. For a minute or two, I speculated on how he thought he could achieve this end, what possible plan he could have up his elegant sleeve, but then I forgot about it as I looked around me, taking in details of my surroundings.