I clenched my fists even tighter and thought fleetingly of Adela and the children. At the same time, I reflected in a detached sort of way how stupid it was to be ending my life in a foreign street in a foreign country and all because of an incident that had blown up out of a clear blue sky (in a manner of speaking) without any rhyme or reason. If I had just allowed the first man take whatever he could find — and he wouldn’t have found much: Albany had forgotten to pay me lately — instead of playing the hero, I should not now be facing this hostile crowd and praying for a miracle. I closed my eyes, steeling myself for the next blow …
Nothing happened except that a furious voice yelled a string of words amongst which I just managed to make out the duke’s name and also those of his half-uncles, Atholl and Buchan; and on opening my eyes again, I saw Donald Seton and Murdo MacGregor pushing their way through my would-be assailants and laying about them with drawn swords. At the sight of naked steel, the mob dispersed hurriedly, if not quietly, most of them exchanging insults (well, I presumed they were insults: they certainly didn’t sound like invitations to supper) with my rescuers.
I gasped my thanks as I straightened my clothing, trying to appear more nonchalant than I felt.
‘I never thought I should be so glad to see you two,’ I admitted somewhat ungraciously.
Murdo gave a sardonic grin but said nothing. Donald, on the other hand, was angrily berating my original assailant who was still huddled on the ground, rocking to and fro, continuing to nurse those parts I had damaged and muttering sullenly in response to this tongue-lashing.
‘I don’t know who he is,’ I said. ‘He just came at me out of the blue. A pickpocket, I suppose.’
Donald gave the poor wretch a final kick for good measure and turned to me.
‘The fool’s name is Jared Lockhart and he’s Robert Sinclair’s man. He must have learned that you’ve been making enquiries about his master and decided to warn you off.’ He regarded me a little contemptuously. ‘Don’t you know better than to go about a city like this unarmed? And you an Englishman into the bargain.’
‘I’ve never been issued with any arms,’ I pointed out savagely. ‘Not even a staff. Blame my lord Albany who’s kept me dancing attendance on him like a glorified chamberer.’
They both sniggered at that, but then Donald Seton pulled a long-bladed dagger from his belt and tossed it to me.
‘Here! Borrow this!’
Murdo let out a growl of protest, but his companion quelled his objections with a frown.
‘Roger can’t go around Edinburgh without protection,’ he said shortly. ‘He could have been killed back there if we hadn’t arrived on the scene.’ He added something else in Scots to which Murdo shrugged and pulled down the corners of his mouth, but he made no further protest.
We were by now inside the castle precincts and ascending the steep staircase by the Portcullis Gate towards the cluster of buildings on the summit.
‘And have you discovered anything to Master Sinclair’s advantage?’ Donald asked as we paused at the top to catch our breath. Even three fit men like ourselves found the climb tiring. Heaven alone knew how armoured men had coped with it during an assault. (Except that they probably wouldn’t have tried. They’d have sent in the lightly clad, expendable foot soldiers to clear their path.)
As I took in the astonishing view from that eagle’s eyrie, I shook my head. ‘Not as much as my lord duke would no doubt like,’ I answered and sniffed. ‘Is that supper I can smell? I’m ravenous.’
Donald grinned and clapped me on the back.
‘Hungry, eh?’ I nodded emphatically. ‘I’m afraid you’ll have to wait until you’ve seen the duke. I was told to bring you straight to him as soon as we’d found you. He was getting worried about you, Roger. He’d expected to hear from you sooner, my friend.’
I snorted angrily. Exactly as I had thought! As always, I was being asked to work miracles.
‘Take me to him, then,’ I said. ‘He might as well know the worst as soon as possible. Where is he?’
Donald glanced at Murdo with a lift of his eyebrows. The other man responded with a typical hunching of his shoulders, but at least, and most unusually, he had the courtesy to speak in English for my benefit.
‘He was in the Council Chamber when he sent me to fetch you. Maybe he’s still there. Try it first. If he isn’t, he’s probably gone to his quarters.’ The squire gave a mirthless smile. ‘I understand there’s to be a “friendly” banquet tonight to set the seal on whatever agreements have been reached today and to put everyone in a good mood for further negotiations tomorrow.’
Donald drew in his breath sharply through clenched teeth.
‘That doesn’t augur well for my lord’s hopes, then.’ Both men fell silent for a moment, their thoughts obviously elsewhere, before Donald continued, ‘We’d better go and find him, Roger, and get it over with. We’ll try the Council Chamber first.’
We made our way towards a building in the lee of a tower which I had heard referred to as David’s Tower, and entered by a thick, iron-studded door into an ante-chamber hung with tapestries depicting scenes in the lives — or so I assumed — of ancient kings. Scenes of mayhem and murder nudged those of pomp and splendour, all glowing with rich reds and yellows, blues and greens, an adornment to any walls in any palace in Europe. I don’t know why it surprised me to see them here, in Scotland, except that I had always presumed it to be a poverty-stricken land with an equally poverty-stricken court. A typically English presumption I suppose. (Nevertheless, it was a poor country, and it had been hit even harder than our own northern shires by the recent months of atrocious weather.)
A second door at the far end of the room stood slightly ajar, and from behind it, Albany’s voice could be heard raised in protest.
‘He’s still here,’ Donald Seton muttered in my ear. ‘Wait for him to come out and tell him your news. If any,’ he added with a mocking grin. ‘I’m off to my supper before all the best of the food gets taken. There are a lot of us to be fed, what with the castle’s normal inhabitants and all the visiting retainers. And they’re a greedy bunch. I’d advise you to come along as soon as you can.’
I thanked him acidly for his concern. He laughed, clapped me on the shoulder a second time and departed, his opening and shutting of the outer door creating a draught that lifted the tapestries, making the woven figures seemingly come alive. It was then that I noticed a young page asleep on a stool in one corner, wearing the blue and murrey livery of the Duke of Gloucester. Prince Richard must also still be in the Council Chamber, and was most likely the person to whom Albany was talking.
I edged a little closer to the open inner door and cautiously eased it a fraction wider with my foot. This gave me a view of the right-hand side of the room as I faced it; part of a table and a row of cushioned chairs and stools ranged alongside, some of the latter partially pushed back as their occupants had left them. Another set of glowing tapestries adorned the walls that I could see, and candlelight spilled across the table top, adding its smoky radiance to the watery daylight seeping in from a window at the far end of the chamber.
As I watched, carefully concealed in the shadow of the half-open door, the Duke of Gloucester walked into view. His thin frame was richly, but not sumptuously dressed; and a light breastplate, although not one he would wear into battle, plainly hinted that the recent meeting was no mere social gathering of neighbouring princes, but a situation that could still flare into open war. All the same, he had lost the careworn frown that had marred his handsome features of late, and the narrow, mobile mouth had a more contented tilt to the corners. But for all that, he had not shed those little nervous tricks of fiddling with the hilt of his dagger, twisting the rings on his fingers or smoothing his left sleeve with the long, sensitive fingers of his right hand. People who knew him well — or who knew people who knew him well, like Timothy Plummer — said he was a poor sleeper, very often troubled by nightmares. And I suppose, given the history of his very nearly thirty years, that was hardly surprising. He had been the prop and stay of his brother’s throne for the past two decades, saddled with responsibility from a horrifyingly early age, and with a hatred of his Woodville in-laws that had to be continually suppressed. Given such circumstances, I felt that I would, myself, have grown a little twitchy.