The Green Man (30 page)

I was sweating profusely. I could feel it coursing down my back underneath my shirt, but at the same time, I felt cold. I passed a hand across my forehead. It came away soaking wet. I sat up straighter in my chair, trying not to look foolish, and gave an awkward laugh.

‘Davey! I must have fallen asleep. I was dreaming.'

‘It must have been a pretty horrible dream,' my companion condoled. ‘Never mind, you're awake now. Here's your supper. My lord said I was to bring it to you. When you've finished, come across to the common hall. Donald's kept you a space and a blanket. Not that I think any of us will get much sleep tonight. Too much snoring. And too much farting,' he added, ‘especially after that pottage. It's full of beans, so be warned. By the way, the duke's very pleased with you. I heard him telling Donald and Murdo that you've solved the problem – whatever that is.' He gave me a suddenly impish grin. ‘So it's been worthwhile bringing you, after all.'

‘Davey,' I began, but stopped. He had no influence with Albany. I doubted if he even knew what was going on. ‘No, nothing.' I shook my head as he raised his eyebrows enquiringly. ‘I'll be with you when I've eaten this.'

He nodded and left. I drew my chair closer to the table and picked up the spoon, only to find that my hand was trembling. The dream had been too vivid for comfort and was still haunting me. I found myself glancing uneasily around the room as if afraid that the apparition had been real and was lurking somewhere in a corner.

I told myself sternly not to be a fool and started on the rapidly cooling broth.

Davey's prediction about the night ahead proved to be all too accurate.

Goodness knows how many of us there were bedding down in the common hall; fifty perhaps, possibly a great deal more. And of course there is always one rowdy section of any all male gathering; those overgrown schoolboys who want to dice the night away or sit around telling bawdy stories, recounting tales of their sexual prowess (boasting extravagantly about the size of their manly assets) until their hapless listeners fall asleep with boredom and disbelief. And the page had been right about the bean stew, as well. After an hour or so, it was a worry that someone might get out his tinder box and strike a light: there was a good chance, I thought, that the place might go up in flames.

I spent most of what was left of the evening trying to convince Donald and Murdo that Albany's plans for the following morning were likely to prove a grave mistake and should be discouraged.

‘I have offered my lord no proof,' I kept reiterating, ‘that John Buchanan holds the missing diary, but the –' I nearly said the fool, but checked myself just in time – ‘the duke has, for some inexplicable reason, taken it into his head that this is the answer to its mysterious disappearance. For God's sake, one of you must try to drum it into him that nothing will come of this idea.'

Murdo grimaced and laughed. ‘He won't listen to us,' he grunted, and Donald agreed with him.

‘Once he gets a bee in his bonnet, he won't listen to anyone. Lord Alexander was always the most headstrong of the brothers, everyone says so.' Donald squashed a flea that had hopped out of the floor rushes to bite him and flicked its remains towards James Petrie, who sat with his back propped against the wall, withdrawn as always and unable to understand what we were saying. (The groom, John Tullo, was absent, presumably sleeping in the stables with the horses.) The squire added, with a malevolent grin, ‘My lord will make you free of his displeasure when he finds he's disappointed.'

Murdo chuckled. ‘He will that.'

‘Well, it will do no good getting angry with me. I've warned him.'

I shifted uncomfortably on my patch of floor, wondering if it was worthwhile settling down to sleep with all the noise, the laughter and conversation, going on around us. It suddenly occurred to me that it was a very long time since I had slept on anything other than a mattress, and that from the time of my leaving London, just on two months ago, I had become used to the best beds on offer. Why, therefore, had I been so abruptly banished from Albany's company? Had he nothing to be afraid of any longer?

I put the question to my companions. ‘And why aren't you two on truckle cots in his ante-chamber?'

Murdo guffawed, Donald gave his superior smile and even Davey giggled. (James Tullo just snored: he had fallen asleep.)

‘He's home now, isn't he?' Donald condescended to answer. ‘Not on the march.' He saw I was still puzzled and said impatiently, ‘The duke'll be bedding down with one of his uncle's whores, lent to him for the occasion. He's been living like a monk for weeks – not that monks do live like monks, you can take it from me – and now he's going to make up for lost time. He wouldn't indulge himself with any of the camp followers, naturally. Might get a dose of the pox. As for us –' he nodded at Murdo and the other two – ‘he's forbidden us to have too much to do with him for the moment. It will be remembered in some quarters that we were Mar's retainers before we escaped to France to join my lord. All the same, no one, as yet, has insisted that he dismisses us, nor has there been any suggestion of our arrest. So the duke has told us to stay near him. We have our uses, like Davey taking you your supper this evening, and Murdo and myself accompanying him to Master Buchanan's house tomorrow. And then, when he becomes king …' He broke off, shrugging.

‘Reward time.' Murdo spat into the rushes and his blue eyes glinted at me from beneath their heavy lids.

‘You really believe that he will be made king?' I asked scornfully. ‘Well, I can tell you that he won't.' And I repeated the conversation between my lord of Gloucester and Albany that I had overheard in the Council Chamber.

To my astonishment, this revelation was received very calmly, as though it was something they had known already. Smiles were exchanged; small, secret, sly smiles suggesting that they knew something that I didn't. Perhaps they thought I was making it up to annoy them. But somehow I didn't think so. Yet what it was they imagined they knew that could alter a situation already decided upon by both English and Scots, and at the very heart of the peace negotiations, I had no idea. Whatever it was, it was a bag of moonshine, but it was no good telling them so. Albany must have managed to convince them that he had some trick up his elegant sleeve and they believed him. I might as well go to sleep.

I lay down, pulled my blanket over me so that it partially covered my face and did just that.

In spite of the discomfort, I must have slept for some hours. When I did at last jerk awake the hall was in darkness, all the candles and wall cressets doused. But the heat was horrendous and the smell even worse. The concentration of bodies, together with the bean stew, had created an atmosphere that was stifling, not to mention the groans and snores that filled the room. After a moment or two, I realized that the heavy weight on my chest was Davey's outflung arm, and also that one of Murdo's feet was resting on the crown of my head. Slowly, I eased myself into a sitting position, returning Davey's arm to him as gently as I could. He murmured a little in his sleep, but did not wake. Murdo also muttered what sounded like a curse as his foot was dislodged, and I thought for a second that he opened his eyes, but then decided that I was mistaken.

By this time, I had also realized that my bladder was at bursting point. I had to get outside or relieve myself where I lay which, judging by some of the odours filling the hall, was the course that many of my companions had already taken. I decided that such embarrassment was not for me and heaved myself upright.

Picking my way between the sprawled bodies was a more difficult task, and as, inevitably, I stood on hands and tripped over feet, I was roundly cursed in both English and Scots. But no one challenged me or showed any inclination to accompany me outside, for which I was truly grateful. They all seemed to be worn out by the rigours of the day, and dog-tired.

The torrential downpour of the previous evening had given way to a gentle drizzle, but if there was a moon, it was hidden behind the wrack of low-flying cloud that veiled the stars. There was a cold wind blowing, tearing at the standard on the top of David's Tower and chilling me to the bone in spite of the fact that it was now the second day of August. I fumbled sleepily with the strings of my codpiece and pissed against the nearest wall, heaving a long sigh of satisfaction as I did so. Then, having straightened my breeches, and feeling hot and clammy in clothes that I had worn all the preceding day, I took a short stroll to where one of several gaps in the curtain wall gave a view into the valley below, where the tents of our army were pitched. I could see a few camp fires starring the darkness and heard, faint and far away, the cries of the sentries on watch, but other than that there was little stirring. The castle guards were out of sight. An owl swooped low over Saint Margaret's chapel, making me start, but reassuring me, also, with the foolish thought that it was a sign from the saint herself that she was indeed looking after me. Then all was quiet again except for the moaning of the wind.

As I made my way back to the common hall, I turned my face up to the fine spray of rain. It was cool and refreshing and I stood for a moment or two, letting it wash over me. I closed my eyes to savour the experience all the better. When I opened them again, it was to find someone looming up in front of me.

My hand flew at once to the haft of the dagger Donald had given me the previous afternoon and which I had failed to return to him. (Indeed, he had not asked for it back and I looked upon it in the light of a loan for the short time now that I and the rest of my countrymen remained in Edinburgh.)

‘Who's there?' I demanded. It was too dark to see the man's features, but his lack of stature and slight build made me suspect the truth before he answered.

‘Oh, it's you, is it?' grumbled Timothy Plummer. ‘I might have guessed. It could only be you, Chapman, traipsing about in the dark and putting the fear of God into honest people.'

‘I might well say the same about you,' I retorted, but without heat. It was so good to hear a familiar voice and words spoken in a comfortable southern accent – even if it was that nasal London drawl – that I could almost have embraced him. ‘Where have you been hiding yourself since Nottingham?'

‘I haven't been hiding myself anywhere,' he snapped. I had obviously ruffled his feathers, which, I have to admit, had partly been my intention. (Baiting Timothy and watching him bridle was one of the great pleasures of my life.) ‘I'll remind you, Roger, that I am Spymaster General to my lord of Gloucester and have been at my lord's beck and call throughout the whole of this expedition. And it's not desirable that I should be too visible. My work is often extremely secret.'

‘That doesn't explain why you're prowling around in the dead of night,' I said. ‘Or does it? Who are you spying on now?'

‘More importantly,' he rapped back, ‘what are you doing out and about? Why aren't you guarding my lord Albany?'

I laughed. ‘The duke has better things to do tonight than allow me to share his bed. My services have been dispensed with for those of a castle whore. His long abstinence on the march has made him randy. I'm in the common hall with the rest of his menie. Even his squires' services have been dispensed with. Well, I suppose he needs some consolation, now that he's not to be king.'

‘How do you know that?' The spy's tone was sharp with suspicion. And by the time that I had finished explaining how I came by my knowledge, he was trembling with indignation.

‘You could, and should, be severely punished for eavesdropping on my lord's private conversations. If I had my way—'

‘Settle down,' I hissed angrily. ‘I had been told to report to my lord Albany in connection with a private investigation I've been ordered to undertake for him. That's why I happened to be in the ante-chamber. Neither he nor my lord Gloucester made any move to close the door in spite of the fact that one of Gloucester's pages was also present. True, the boy was asleep, but—'

It was Timothy's turn to interrupt. ‘What investigation for Albany?' he demanded.

The rain had suddenly increased as the wind blew more strongly. I put out an imperative hand and drew Timothy towards the shelter of Saint Margaret's Chapel. Once inside, in the musty-smelling darkness, I told him the whole story, including the itinerary of my past twenty-four hours in detail. It was a relief to be able to unburden myself to someone I knew well, and he listened intently, only interjecting a question or two here and there where my narrative became a little garbled. Somewhat to my surprise, when I had finished, he made no comment, merely lapsing into a thoughtful silence. Finally, when he did speak, it was on another subject altogether.

‘Tell me,' he said, ‘do these retainers of the Earl of Mar, who have attached themselves to him, realize that Albany will not now become king?'

I nodded. ‘I've told them what I overheard. But the strange thing is that they don't seem unduly downcast by the news. In fact they shrug it off as though they think I'm mistaken. And odder, still, Albany himself, although very angry about what he sees as betrayal by his English allies, also behaves as though the game's not played out yet. I find it difficult to understand. I feel he's planning something, but what it could be, I can't imagine. I believe he might have made a move already but for this business of Rab Sinclair.' I shivered as a gust of wind rattled the door behind us and threatened to slam it. I put out a foot to wedge it open. ‘At least he seems to be a man loyal to his friends.'

Again, Timothy said nothing, but I could tell by the quality of the silence that he was thinking hard. But eventually he made no comment except, ‘We'd better get back to bed. We'll catch our death of cold standing out here.' He made to move away, then swung round and seized me by the shoulders. ‘Take care, Roger! Take care!' Then he was gone and the darkness had swallowed him up. I realized that he had still offered no explanation of what he was doing out in the middle of the night, prowling about alone. I felt annoyed that he had prised everything out of me and given away nothing in return. But I suppose that was what made him a good spy.