A Chorus of Innocents (10 page)

“Get them out of here,” she snarled. “I never want to see either one of the useless lunks again, that means you, Hector, and you, Sim, as well.”

Sim still had hold of his cods but was on his feet. Then he was sick down his jerkin, which made Jock hoot even more and even Young Henry crack a smile.

“Out!” she shrieked and pulled her now dirty apron off Hector as he struggled to his feet and kicked him in the arse so he landed on his face in some manure from the carthorses. Sim broke into an unsteady run out of the gate, followed a moment later by Hector. She went after them at a fast walk and closed it with a loud slam and barred it.

Archie and Young Henry put their swords away and tried to stop grinning. Jock was starting to calm down again with “ahoo” noises. There was the ugly sound of him blowing his nose onto the ground for want of any such thing as a handkerchief.

“I did not spend the whole day getting beer for the funeral to have it drunk by Hector and Sim Widdrington,” she said icily to Young Henry. He looked contrite, as well he should since it was his fault he had put the two of them on to guard.

“Ay, my lady,” said Young Henry, “I'll see it's safe.”

She turned on Jock Burn. “And you can find the barrel that's gone missing,” she said to him.

“Och, we haven't got it…” he started.

“It's yer ain beer,” she shouted at him. “I bought it with your money for your nephew's funeral, who's lying in the crypt with half his head off. He's no kin of mine, I don't care if his funeral has nathing to drink but I thought that at least ye might.”

She folded her arms and stared him down. “Ay, missus,” he said, “ay. We'll find it, though it'll likely be empty.”

They agreed on three watches of four men each, mixed Burns and Widdringtons so they could keep an eye on each other as well as the beer. Elizabeth waited until the watches were set and the barrels tied down again and then stalked back into the house where she found Kat just finishing with the spiced wine. She was carefully filling three silver goblets with the mixture.

“The men were at the booze, nae doot,” said Kat. “Is there any left?”

“Ay there is,” said Elizabeth, “we only lost a barrel.”

“That's a mercy,” said Kat. She emptied the chafing dish of coals into the main part of the range and piled them up and put the curfew on. Then she took the stems of the two goblets while Elizabeth took the stem of the third goblet and followed her upstairs into the main bedroom where Lady Hume was tucked up in bed in her shift already and her clothes hung on one of the hooks on the wall. She looked fragile and little as she sat up and took the goblet, warming her knotted hands on it and sipping the hot wine-water. Kat sat beside her and took several sips before putting down the goblet.

“So the King of Elfland came to ye, did he?” she said encouragingly.

The little bird nodded and took a bigger sip. “Ay, he did. He was disguised as an English archer, so first I was affeared of him for they were bad men, all of them. He was disguised with brown hair and blue eyes and he was a big strong man with a big chest and big strong arms and he said, ‘Dinna be afraid, I'll not hurt you.'”

And he showed her his big bow, as big as himself it was, and she had a try at pulling it but she couldna budge it o' course, for it was a magic bow and the King of Elfland was the only man i'the world that could string it. Then he strung it and he said to her, “Will ye come to my kingdom with me?” And she was all dirty with running through the woods so she said, “I'm ashamed to come to your kingdom,” and he took out his pack and gave her a beautiful collar, a necklace of gold with emeralds and sapphires, fit for the Queen of Elfland herself and so she put that on and didna feel so bad. And then he pit her on his horse and he rode behind her through the terrible dark woods where terrible dark deeds were being done and he took her to Elfland where there are great round houses with pillars of gold and garnets and lapis lazuli and tourmaline and cat's-eye, like in the story of Tam Lin. And there he took out his other stringed instrument for he was a harper as well, and he played to her all night long, beautiful music he played to her…

The little bird had snuggled down under the covers with her head on the pillow and her hand under her cheek and she slept. Elizabeth and Kat's eyes met and then Kat stood up and started undoing her kirtle.

They peacefully helped each other to undress, which speeded the process considerably.

“I'll drink my wine now,” said Kat.”It's got a spot of laudanum in it to help her rest but she willna drink it if I dinna keep her company.” And she drank down the lukewarm spiced wine, got into bed next to Lady Hume and went to sleep.

Elizabeth left hers on the table and went downstairs again with the taper. She didn't have keys to the place, but she pushed the kitchen table against the back door and barred the main door from the inside. Then she went wearily upstairs again, thought about taking off and washing her stockings which were beginning to smell but didn't have the energy for heating the water to start with and picked up the goblet of spiced wine-water to drink.

And stopped dead. She lifted the goblet up and looked at it carefully. Yes. It was Poppy's. So were the other two.

She lifted the quilt and checked in the bed, then looked under it and saw a nicely washed and scoured jordan, blessings upon you, Kat, and next to it the beautiful silver bowl that Poppy had from her mother and was most of her dowry.

So the plate cupboard hadn't been raided by the murderers. On the other hand, that meant it should have been closed and locked and if anyone wanted the contents they would have had to break it open. So the plate cupboard had been opened by Jamie and then even after he was killed, the murderers hadn't bothered with the plate.

She looked at the goblets again—they were nicely made with roses and lilies chased around them, probably from an Edinburgh silversmith. Perhaps Lady Hume had found them in the plate cupboard and put them upstairs for safekeeping and then forgotten about it. She drank only half of the wine-water because she didn't like the thick-headedness you got from laudanum, climbed into bed on the other side of Lady Hume and fell asleep with Hector and Sim Widdrington and the goblets whirling round her head.

Monday 16th October 1592

Around eight in the morning the tooth-drawer came back into the village on his little pony from Edinburgh where he was starting to get a good reputation although he had only been there a day this time. He tethered his pony in the yard and went into the commonroom of the alehouse, finding it a great deal more full with people than he had ever known.

“So it's true,” he said to Tim, “Minister Burn was killed. I came back when I heard.”

“Mr Anricks, I'm glad to see ye. Were there no teeth to be drawn in Edinburgh?”

“Hundreds, possibly thousands, but there are also barber surgeons there who don't like competition. What happened here?”

“Well, ye wouldna credit it, but the minister was killt stone dead wi' his head chopped off not an hour after ye left…”

Mr Anricks was a good listener and sat seriously while everyone vied to give him the story which everyone else had heard. There had been two strangers in the village, that was certain, or perhaps there were three, oh no, that included him and you're no stranger, Mr Anricks. The minister had his brainpan sliced for him probably in the afternoon but no one was sure because his wife had disappeared, though the word was she had ridden all the way to Widdrington and was there now. He had been found in the morning by Lady Hume who had come avisiting and been taken into the crypt and wrapped in his shroud and the house cleaned up a bit by some of the village women and then Lady Widdrington had arrived too. And the Burns were coming in, so they knew, and some of the Pringles and Routledges…

He listened, he nodded and he agreed with the storyteller. Whatever the story, no matter how wild the story—there were several who were convinced it was his wife that did the job or helped in it somehow—he agreed with the storyteller.

The strangers were the favourites, though, especially as there were two horses apparently found in the South with West March brands on them, just left to take their own way home.

***

“My lady, could we sing for the minister's funeral?”

Lady Widdrington looked around and down and found a boy standing there, twisting his cap in his hands, with two others behind him. The boy talking to her had red hair and freckles. All three of them had red-rimmed eyes and blotchy faces.

“What?”

“Only we're the boys from his school,” said the boy. “He was teachin' us oor letters and numbers, like the Reverend Gilpin did him, and now he's deid and we willna learn them at a' nor be ministers like him and…and…”

“We wantae sing for him,” said another boy. “We wantae make a song tae the Lord…”

“And warn 'em in heaven, there's a Burn on his way…”

“…ay, and so everyone can see what we wis learnin' and that we learnt it gude.”

“Will ye let us, yer ladyship?”

The red-haired lad had tears rolling down his face and the brown-haired boy behind him had his face screwed up. The black-haired boy was gripping his fists together until the knuckles showed white.

“How many of you are there?” she asked.

“There's twelve on us, ladyship, like the Apostles,” said the black-haired boy.

“But we're the eldest so we came to ye.”

“What are your names?”

The red-headed lad ducked his head. “I'm Cuddy Trotter, he's Andy Hume, and that's Piers Dixon.”

“Come with me.”

She led the way into the parlour of the manse and the boys looked sideways at each other and the black-haired boy who was a Hume said, “Can we no' go intae his study, ma'am? That's where he taught us.”

“I'm sorry, boys, the study is locked and I haven't the key.”

They looked at each other, looked down. Piers Dixon started to speak, “Ay, but…”

“Och,” said Cuddy Trotter.

“Where's his lady, ma'am?” asked Andy Hume.

“Mrs Burn is at Widdrington in the English East March and I hope she's staying in bed and resting so she doesn't have her babe too soon.”

All three of them nodded solemnly. “Ay,” said Cuddy, “the minister was right proud o' that…”

“Do you have a key, or know where the key is? For otherwise I shall have to ask some of the men to break the door because I need to know if the minister left a will.”

“Ay, he did, ma'am,” said Piers. “He made it last month and he got Cousin William and Tim at the alehouse to witness it forebye, so it's as legal as can be.”

“Oh, did he?”

There was a certain amount of elbowing and looks exchanged.

“Do you know of a key?”

“In a manner of speaking,” said Cuddy. “Here, I'll show ye.”

He went across the hall to the door of the study and he took his knife out. Then he jiggled it in the lock until the old-fashioned levers moved and the door opened.

Lady Widdrington went first into the study and found it neatly arranged as a schoolroom with three benches and a teacher's lectern pushed to one side, a clerk's desk at the other side, a chair with arms, and a whole wall of books. There was a pile of papers on the clerk's desk, an inkpot, and several pens. The window was locked shut. She sat at the clerk's desk, opened the drawer and there was Jamie Burn's last will and testament staring up at her. She picked it up, folded it in three and put it in the inner pocket of her kirtle.

“Did the minister always lock his study when he went out of it?” she asked.

Andy nodded vigorously. “Always, even if he went out to the jakes.”

“Did he know how easy it was to pick the lock?”

“Ehmm…he might of,” offered Piers.

“What do you mean?”

“Well, we used tae steal books, ye see, fra his bookshelf. We'd allus bring 'em back 'cos he said they were too hard for us tae read…”

“…which they weren't…”

“…and Andy said it was all a joke 'cos the books changed, the ones we could reach…”

“I've brung the one back I wis reading,” said Cuddy dolefully. “It's in Scots about a' Greek gods and that.”

He brought a worn copy of an Ovid from under his shirt, wiped it off ineffectually with his sleeve and then went solemnly to the shelf and put it back.

“Ay, he said he wis a minister and couldnae let us read pagans like Ovid…”

“Or Loo-creesh-us…”

“But there they wis on the shelf and he never noticed even if we took a big thick book…”

“…and he'd ask us aboot 'em and laugh when Piers knew the answers…”

“Ay, ye're soft, ye are…”

“He wanted us tae steal 'em…”

“So long as we brung 'em back.”

“I didn't once, because I liked it, it was
Holinshed's Chronicles
and it was so exciting…”

“And he said some wicked puck had gone and ta'en it and we'd best tell the fairies tae bring it back cos he needed it for a sermon…”

“And when we did we found there was a book aboot Scots history and so we took that…”

“So he wanted us to steal 'em, didn't he, ma'am?” finished Andy. “Didn't he?”

Elizabeth was trying not to laugh. How did you get the sons of reivers to read books? Well, you told them they couldn't have them and let nature take its course.

“I think so,”

“Told you!”

“Ay, Cuddy, all yer worriting for naething…”

“Did he never beat you?”

“Beat us?” Cuddy looked bewildered. “Why would he?”

“He beat my brother Sim for pissing on a Bible for a bet,” said Piers Dixon. “But nae more'n that.”

“Ay, he were right to do that. It weren't Papist superstition either, it were wickedness because a Bible's expensive and it wouldnae burst into flames if ye pissed on it, which was a lot of super-steeshious nonsense and Sim should be ashamed of hisself,” explained Andy seriously.

“It made my dad laugh,” said Piers. “He didn't laugh so loud when he had to pay for a new Bible, he were furious, said ye could still use the old one when once ye'd got it dried out—and the minister wouldn't have it.”

“Ay,” said Andy, “and Sim got another leathering fra his dad for that.”

“Ay,” said Piers, “so did I.”

“Why?”

“Cos I didnae stop him, o' course.”

“So can we sing for him?” Cuddy asked. “We know lots of psalms, we allus sang 'em first and we did reading from them too.”

“Can you show me?”

The boys looked at each other. “Just us?”

“Well, can you get the others together?”

They looked at each other again. “Ay, we can. Gi' us a while, missus, we'll run and fetch 'em.”

She waited in the study and only half an hour later, eleven breathless boys, ranging in age from eleven down to seven formed up in front of her by the benches.

“We havenae Lord Hughie because he's at Norwood so we're eleven.”

“Like the Apostles.”

“Ay, after the Crucifixion, when Judas'd done 'imself in, the coward…”

“Will we sing for ye now, missus.”

“Who'll gi' the note, wi'out the minister?” asked Piers Dixon in a panic.

“I will,” said Andy Hume firmly. “I'm no' as good as him, but it'll have to do.”

There was a while of whispering while they thrashed out which ones they would sing and then Andy Hume hummed three notes and they began.

One boy there was clearly tone deaf and droned away, the rest had clear, true voices improved by training. Elizabeth was almost more impressed that the boy who couldn't sing had been allowed to go on singing with them, than she was by the others.

They sang of the rivers of Babylon and they sang the “Lord is my shepherd” and by the end of it, Elizabeth's eyes had filled and overflowed.

The boys stood and fidgeted and elbowed each other. “Are ye a'right, missus?” asked Cuddy, very concerned.

“Ladyship…” hissed Andy.

“Missus ladyship, are ye hurting?”

Elizabeth blew her nose. “That was beautiful, boys,” she said inadequately, “and I'm sad about the minister too, so…”

“Mebbe we shouldna sing if it makes people sadder,” said Cuddy anxiously.

“You should,” Elizabeth told him, “it helps the sadness to come out, like draining a sore. And why shouldn't we be weeping at Jamie Burn's funeral? He was a good man and we'll miss him.”

“Ay,” said Andy, “that's the right of it! D'ye ken who it was did it, ladyship?”

“No,” she admitted, “do you?”

“It were the strangers, the two men naebody knew,” said Cuddy. “I wish I'd known what they were at when I seen 'em. I'd mind 'em and I'd kill 'em too.”

“Ay,” said Andy Hume, “ay, we a' will if ye can just find who they were. We'll ride oot wi' our families and kill 'em stone deid, so we will.”

There were soprano growls and promises of vengeance from every one of the boys and the second-youngest started crying again.

“Dinna greet,” said Andy roughly, “ye'll stuff yer nose up and willna be able to sing,”

“I only know ma letters, I dinna ken the putting together o' them…” choked the boy, “how'll I learn that?”

“Och, shut it,” said Piers, punching him lightly. “It's no' sae hard, once ye know the letters, I'll tell ye.”

“Ay, or me,” said Andy Hume, “it's whit the minister would'a wanted.”

Elizabeth asked each boy what he had seen on the day before yesterday. They had had a usual school day, with the two eldest beginning some Latin grammar and the rest learning to read and write. Yes, they had begun with psalms, they always did, and they ended with a prayer. And then the two strangers had come.

The boys could not agree about the strangers. They were dark-haired, they were light-haired, they were wide, they were short, they were tall, they had the look of Grahams or Armstrongs or Maxwells or Johnstones or Fenwicks…No, they weren't wearing jacks, just ordinary homespun, dyed brown and blue like anybody's father might wear. No, they didn't have spears or dags or nothing, only both had swords, of course. No, not one boy could tell what the swords had been like. One was older, one was younger, that was all they could say. They spoke Scots, like anyone else. No, neither of them had a finger missing or anything useful like that. They were just men. They'd said they were printers from Edinburgh.

“Did they have inky hands?”

“Eh?”

“Were their hands stained? I never knew a printer that didn't have his hands black with ink.”

The boys thought, argued a bit and agreed. No, the strangers' hands had been normal, no ink.

Had the minister known them? Cuddy and Andy wrinkled their brows at that. Piers thought carefully. “I think he did,” he said, “or he knew of them. He bowed a little to them and invited them into the house. We were going fishing so we went off with oor fishing rods and a basket and he didn't say, good luck boys, but we didn't notice, we just went. Down to the stream, missus, where it hooks round and ye can get salmon sometimes.”

“Yeah,” said Cuddy, “but we couldna fish there that day, for Mrs Burn was there with Sissy and Mary and me mam to do the linen and the sheets and so we had to go off to the ither place that isn't sae good and none of us catched anything.”

“Oh. And did you tell Mrs Burn anything?”

“Ay missus, we told her there were two printers from Edinburgh come to see her husband and she told me mam to take over for a little and finish wringing them out and dry them on the bushes ready for the next day and she went off to see them.”

“Oh really. How did she look? Was she frightened?”

Both Cuddy and Andy were scowling. “Not frightened, but she looked excited. Ye ken? As if something good was happening? She hurried up away from the stream to the manse and she was straightening her cap while she went.”

“Hm. So do you think she knew who the men were?”