The Puzzle Ring (28 page)

Donovan lifted his flugelhorn to his lips. The familiar music rang out. They waited for his solo—deep, haunting, filled with loss and longing—to finish, then Hannah began to strum her guitar.

To her surprise, everyone stirred and a small hum of shock and displeasure rose. But the sound died away as soon as she and Scarlett began to sing, their voices in perfect harmony.

As the song died away, there was a little pause. Hannah
loved that small moment of silence. The greater the pause, the wilder the applause, it seemed to her, and so she was pleased and relieved when the nobles all clapped and shouted out words of praise.

Queen Mary was smiling. She stood and raised her hand, and the noise died down. ‘This is a pretty sight indeed, and a pretty sound too. You play very sweetly for ones so young. We have not seen you at court before . . .'

‘Surely that is because their mother's milk is still wet on their lips!' Lord Bothwell quipped.

‘Where do you come from? You speak French very well. Have you come from Paris?'

Hannah was astonished. She did not speak French at all. She looked at Scarlett and Donovan and Max, and saw the same flustered surprise on their faces. Then she realised it must still be the magic of the hag-stone.

‘No, your Majesty. Though my teacher played there for many years.' Hannah smiled at the thought of old Mr Wheeler, who often told her stories about his years playing in the jazz nightclubs of the French capital. He had once played trumpet for Nina Simone there.

‘Ah, that explains it. Your teacher, is he here?' Queen Mary looked about her.

‘No. He's a long way away.' Sadness touched Hannah's face. She did miss her old friend and teacher.

‘You are alone? You have no parents, no protector?'

Hannah shook her head. ‘My father is dead,' she said huskily. ‘Or so we think. My mother too is far away.' So far away it was impossible to think of the distance that separated them. Tears started to her eyes, for the fear that she might never be able to find her way back to her own time had
weighed on Hannah ever since she had first realised
when
she was.

Pity softened the queen's face. ‘So you wish to stay here at court?'

‘No!' Hannah said hastily. ‘I mean, I thank your Majesty, but we must go on just as soon as we can.'

‘Ah! Travelling troubadours, I see. Well, then, you will want my protection. I will arrange a pass for you.' She waved one hand at a soberly clad man standing against the wall, who nodded his head and bowed. ‘We would not like four such pretty young people to be branded on the cheek for singing in public without a licence.' Although the queen smiled, Hannah felt a little shock at her words. She had not realised that travelling musicians needed a licence.

‘Will you sing for us again?' the queen asked.

Hannah nodded. She glanced at the others, trying to think what song to perform. Her fingers strayed into ‘Black is the Colour of my True Love's Hair'. Although it was an old Scottish folk song, it was one Nina Simone often sang. The others followed her lead. Again there was that little hum of surprised displeasure as Hannah began to play her guitar, but again the beauty of the song hushed the crowd and they listened quietly. To Hannah's surprise, the words of the song caused a few titters of laughter around the room, with many turning to look at the black-haired Lord Bothwell lying back in his seat beside Queen Mary, a look of sardonic amusement on his strong, dark face.

After they had finished, the four children were accosted by all sorts of men and women asking them questions, pressing wine and sweetmeats upon them, asking them to come and sing at this party and that. A tall, thin man dressed all in black
satin, with a flowing white lace cravat instead of a ruff, and shoes so pointed they looked like weapons, came and bent close to Hannah, smiling and murmuring something she could not hear. She inclined her head, trying to hear him, and suddenly he reached out and viciously plucked a strand of her hair. She cried out in pain, and clapped a hand to her head, and the man—smiling still—melted away into the crowd.

‘Who was that?' Linnet asked in some agitation.

‘I don't know,' Hannah cried, her eyes smarting with tears. ‘He pulled some of my hair right out by the roots!'

Linnet looked grave. ‘One of the black witch's spies, no doubt. She can find you more easily if she has part of you to hold. Usually she prefers a finger or toe, but a strand of your hair works just as well, particularly if it is pulled out by the roots and so has your blood on it.'

‘A magpie plucked some of my hair back in my own time,' Hannah told her, rubbing her head furiously.

Linnet nodded. ‘She may not be able to track you here with that, though, for you are out of time. I was hoping she had lost our trail. We were careful to keep out of sight as much as possible. I'm guessing she knew we must come to Edinburgh, and so her spy was waiting for us.'

Just then, John Hulme came up to them, drawing Hannah aside and looking at her sternly. ‘That is a dangerous game you play, strumming with the Devil's hand. You must not do that again. The crowd was merry, and you are very young, and no one wished to spoil the festivities. But if that firebrand Knox should hear of it, there'd be trouble.'

Hannah shrank back. She had read of John Knox, the strict and puritanical preacher who had led the Protestant Reformation in Scotland. He had written a pamphlet
denouncing the rule of Mary, Queen of Scots, and her cousin Mary Tudor of England, calling it ‘The First Blast of the Trumpet Against the Monstrous Regiment of Women'. He preached such fiery sermons that riots broke out in churches, and he had confronted the young queen and lectured her upon her frivolous ways until she had wept.

‘What do you mean, the Devil's hand?' Hannah had never heard the left hand being called that before.

John Hulme stared at her in angry incredulity. ‘But surely you must know! Why, they will burn you if they see you using the Devil's hand.'

‘Burn me?'

‘Aye. For only a witch would ever use her left hand!'

Hannah found it hard to take a breath. Her whole body felt hot and dizzy. She looked down at her left hand in horror. She had heard, of course, stories about how, in the olden days, children had been beaten for using their left hand and had had it tied behind their back. She had never heard of anyone being burnt to death for it.

‘I didn't know,' she managed to say.

‘No one has ever told you before? Warned you against using the Devil's hand?' When she shook her head, he went on, in a kinder tone of voice, ‘Where have you come from? The Outer Hebrides! Well, I tell you now. I wish I had seen you play before you did so before the whole court! You must not do so again.'

But I don't know any other way to play
, she thought.

‘It is a good thing that you are leaving right away,' he said.

‘But no! Not at all! They must not leave so soon!' A warm, sweet, persuasive voice rang across the room. The queen had risen, her ladies clustering about her. ‘They are virtuosos! I must hear them sing again. Not now. We're going to dance now, and then I have the ambassador's dinner afterwards. But tonight!'

‘They could sing at the masque tonight,' John Hulme said. ‘Sebastian plans a midnight supper, before the putting-to-bed ceremony. It would be a lovely way to end the day, with sweet love songs sung by such angelic voices.'

‘Wonderful,' the queen agreed. ‘But do you really plan to move on again in the morning, my dears? It is Lent, you know. You cannot play and sing again for forty days.'

‘We must, your Majesty,' Scarlett said dramatically. ‘We cannot tarry.'

Hannah shot her a warning glance, then turned back to the queen, seeing at last a chance to beg her for the loop of the puzzle ring. But the queen was speaking, and Hannah dared not interrupt her.

‘In that case, you must come with me tonight when I visit my husband. I know the king will like to see the new singers the whole court is speaking of. You shall walk to Kirk o' Fields with us, and entertain us while the men play at dice!' She nodded and moved away, leaving Hannah with that faint uneasy flicker of memory. Where
had
she heard of Kirk o' Fields before?

The moment of puzzling cost Hannah her opportunity. She would have started after the queen, even dropped on her knees to beg her for the golden loop. But it was too late. The queen was dancing with Lord Bothwell, the two tall figures in their matching black and silver sweeping through the crowd
of dancing courtiers like an iron scythe. Hannah fell back, troubled and afraid.

As the shadows closed down over the gardens outside, great branches of candles were lit, and the laughing queen retired, taking with her a host of lords and ladies and attendants. Linnet came and took the children to the kitchen, sitting them down in front of a bowl of broken meats and vegetables. The children had not eaten since their porridge that morning. They ate ravenously, finding the clatter and commotion of the kitchen nearly as fascinating as the swirl of dancers above.

‘How many people must the cooks have to feed every day?' Max wondered. ‘It must be hundreds, maybe even a thousand.'

‘I wish they didn't have to eat the swans,' Scarlett said.

‘You're probably eating a bit of swan right now,' said Donovan.

Scarlett faltered, holding a piece of meat to her mouth, then shrugged and ate it anyway. It was delicious.

Later that evening, a page came to fetch them to join the royal party, heading into Edinburgh town. The queen and her courtiers rode gorgeously caparisoned horses. Everyone else walked through the frosty darkness, the flare of torches sending great banners of smoke up into the night sky, dimming the stars. Everyone was still dressed in their carnival finery, some wearing masks like cats or dragons or terrifying birds. The queen wore a black fur mantle against the cold. Everyone chattered in high, shrill voices. Max and Scarlett were running about, scraping up the snow and pelting each other with icy snowballs. Donovan was staring up at the night sky, where a new moon hung among stars,
while Angus stumped behind, Linnet a slim shadow by his side.

‘Why does the queen's husband not live at the palace too?' Hannah asked John Hulme, the queen's lute player.

He glanced down at her in surprise. ‘Well . . . he has been sick . . . and her Majesty did not want him to return till she was sure he was fully recovered. And of course, they have not been so sweet to each other this past year, not since David Rizzio was killed . . .' His voice trailed away.

Hannah remembered that David Rizzio had been the queen's secretary. He had been stabbed to death in her bedchamber at Holyrood Palace, leaving bloodstains that could never be washed away. The queen's husband had believed Rizzio was Queen Mary's lover, even though he was an ugly little hunchback, and so he and his friends had burst in upon them playing cards one night, and killed him right in front of Mary's horrified eyes. She had been seven months pregnant then, and felt sure that they had meant to murder her too, leaving Lord Darnley—her husband—to inherit the throne. Hannah thought it very strange that the queen could still be married to a man who had murdered her friend and tried to murder her.

‘So why does she go to visit him now?' Hannah asked.

John Hulme hesitated a moment, then answered frankly: ‘They say you should keep your friends close, and your enemies closer. With the king here, under her eye, she can be sure he is not plotting against her again.'

Hannah pondered this, more puzzled than ever.

The queen's party went through the massive gateway of Netherbow Port, Lord Bothwell calling greetings to the guards and tossing them a handful of coins. Once again it
was like entering a different world. Outside all was dark and peaceful, with the graceful shape of the palace lit up with candles, and the distant sound of music drifting on the wind. Inside, it was noisy and raucous, with people swarming everywhere, drinking ale and singing loud choruses that involved a lot of banging of tankards and shrieking with laughter. Some children were playing with firecrackers in a corner, a dog was chasing a scrawny cat, and six couples were dancing boisterously to the sound of a fiddle.

‘They call this the World's End,' John Hulme told Hannah. ‘Many people cannot pay the fee to come in and out through the gate, and so they live and die here, within the city's walls.'

‘So they never go anywhere else?' Hannah looked around at the dark, smoky streets with pity.

‘Why would they want to? Edinburgh is the greatest city in the world!' the lute player boasted.

Donovan and Hannah smiled wryly at each other.

The queen was smiling and waving to the crowd and the earl was throwing more coins, but Hannah noticed some of the crowd scowled in response and shook their fists.

The bells of St Giles rang out noisily, filling the air with their clangour, and at once boys began to walk the streets, banging on drums. Heads appeared at doors and windows high and low, calling out loudly, ‘Gardyloo! Gardyloo!' Then they emptied out their chamber-pots into the street, in foul-smelling deluges that splashed on the heads of those who were not quick enough to draw away from the walls. One of the queen's pages ran on ahead, waving his torch and calling, ‘Hold your hand!' and the ladies held scented pomanders to their noses, but otherwise no one seemed to notice or mind.