As soon as I had satisfied my initial hunger with a bowlful of surprisingly excellent fish stew, I turned to Donald and asked if he knew what had happened to John Buchanan.
He shrugged. ‘In prison, I should imagine, awaiting charges. My lord was hoping to get the diary to the City Magistrates as soon as this morning’s session of the Great Council finished. He should have time. He’s excused himself from attending today’s second meeting.’
It was on the tip of my tongue to tell both Murdo and Donald — and Davey, too, of course — what I had discovered, but an interruption by the servers, collecting dirty bowls and slapping dishes of oatcakes on the table in front of us, made me think twice, and then the moment was lost. They were laughing and talking together in that Scots vernacular from which I was firmly excluded, although, judging by the way their eyes covertly flicked towards me every now and again, I had a feeling that I might be the subject under discussion.
The meal (washed down by small beer) at last over, Donald again demonstrated an unwanted comradeship by linking one of his arms firmly in mine. Murdo, also, was once more my friend, stationing himself on my other side and somehow remaining there as we forced a passage to the door. Nor did he show any inclination to move away when we reached the open air, only falling behind as we descended to the lower ward and then reclaiming his former position with a tenacity that roused my previous misgivings. I recalled my boast to Timothy Plummer that I would hold myself excused from accompanying Albany to Roslin, but now that the moment had arrived, for some reason, could not bring myself to do so. The horses, ready saddled and waiting, seemed to clinch the fact that I was to make one of the party, whatever my own wishes in the matter.
The duke did not keep us waiting for more than ten minutes or so, saluting us in his friendliest fashion, speaking to everyone by name, but, I thought, avoiding my eyes when he addressed a word of greeting to me. It also occurred to me that Donald and Murdo, together with Davey, moved, as if by some prearranged agreement, to hem him in, rather to prevent me getting too close than for any more sinister reason. I considered again breaking free of the group and announcing my refusal to go with them, but before the intention was more than half-formed, John Tullo and James Petrie closed in alongside me, their horses forcing my own mount forward as we passed the sentries and left the castle behind.
Murdo had been right. It was no great distance to Roslin, but riding at a quick trot that occasionally broke into a gallop, still made for an uncomfortable journey as far as I was concerned. Although I seemed to have spent half my life in the saddle these past two months, the pace had been slower and I had been mounted on a more sober beast than the mettlesome one I had now been given. I am, at best, an indifferent horseman, a fact known by now to all Albany’s henchmen, and it crossed my mind to wonder if John Tullo had been instructed to provide me with one of the friskier animals in Albany’s stable in order to discomfit me.
Here and there, the main tracks had been rendered impassable by the rain of the preceding night and we were forced to take lesser trails winding through woodland, where delicate veils of foliage let in pallid gleams of sun; then bursting out again on to wild sweeps of moorland, lying seemingly empty and unpopulated for mile after desolate mile. Wraiths of early morning mist still clung to the dew-soaked grass in unexpected hollows and crevices that once or twice almost brought me down, and only the steadying hand of one of my companions on my bridle saved horse and rider from imminent disaster. Once, I heard the groom’s voice raised in exasperation and someone else sniggered, but I set my teeth and held on like grim death: I would not give them the pleasure of seeing me thrown.
It was past midday when we finally arrived at our destination, and the light, now pale gold, struck the tops of the trees surrounding what I presumed to be Albany’s hunting lodge. As far as I could see at first glance, this was nothing more than a twin-storey building of the same grey stone that was widely used for construction purposes in this Border area. It had, as well, a thatched roof, further indication, had I needed one, of the impoverished state of the Scottish court compared with the opulence of the English palaces. True, there was luxury enough in Edinburgh Castle’s royal apartments, the little I had seen of them, but there was a Spartan quality to the outbuildings and the town in general that found an echo only in England’s northern shires and had nothing to do with the easier living of the south.
Within, the lodge was dank and empty, and I remembered that, of course, Albany had been exiled for the past three years. It seemed no one else had used it in all that time: it had been left to rot on the edge of the village. Which said, I suppose, much for the honesty of the villagers who had neither stolen the thatch nor broken down the door to pilfer what was inside.
Not, I thought, glancing around me once the shutters had been opened, that there was much to tempt a casual thief, not unless he were in need of benches and table or plain tallow candles in pewter holders. Albany, too, seemed somewhat put out by the bareness of the place, and remarked to Donald that he regretted stripping the walls of all their hangings before leaving for France.
‘Well, I did reach there eventually,’ he added, glancing at me and grinning conspiratorially.
I was in no mood, however, to respond, nor did I make any attempt to join in the general bustle of preparation which kept the others busy. Food and wine had been brought in pannier baskets and had to be carried indoors. John Tullo brought in wood from somewhere to pile it on the old-fashioned central hearth, where it was finally coaxed into a blaze, a welcome contrast to the dull August day outside. If Albany noticed my sullen defiance, he made no mention of it, and even did me the honour of waving me to the seat at his right hand when, at last, he called us all to the table where wine and an array of carved wooden beakers had been set out.
‘First, we’ll slake our thirst,’ he said, ‘before we make our pilgrimage to the church. I don’t doubt the ride has given us all dry throats. I’ll request you to do the honours, Murdo.’
‘Can I ask what we’re doing here?’ I demanded, suddenly finding both courage and voice.
Albany raised his eyebrows slightly at the bluntness of the question and the lack of his title to decorate it, but made no comment.
‘Patience, Roger,’ he said, smiling. ‘All will soon be revealed.’ He pushed one of the overflowing beakers towards me. (Murdo had poured out with a generous hand.) ‘Drink, now.’ He broke into a laugh. ‘It will cure you of the sullens.’
‘Before I do, my lord,’ I said, dragging the piece of rag-paper from my pouch, ‘I want you to look at this.’
The duke took it, puzzled, then glanced up for enlightenment. ‘It appears to be a recipe for something.’
I nodded. ‘A recipe for herb broth that I obtained from Mistress Callender, Master Sinclair’s next-door neighbour. A recipe written by Maria Beton who, according to your friend cannot read, let alone write. Moreover,’ I continued relentlessly before Albany had time to think up a reply, ‘you will find that the writing is identical to that of Aline Sinclair’s supposed diary. She didn’t have a secret lover, nor was she planning to murder her husband. It is a highly ingenious plot to cover the fact that it was Master Sinclair who killed his wife, deliberately and in cold blood.’