A Chorus of Innocents (4 page)

“I've been thinking,” she said. “I shouldn't have come here, should I?”

“No,” agreed Elizabeth, “with the babe and all, it would have been better if you'd sent for me. Not ridden for a day and a night on Prince.”

“I couldn't think,” Poppy said. “All I could think of was getting to you and telling you.”

Poppy had her fists clenched but was at least making sense now. She had no family nearer than Carlisle and her mother and father were dead; there was only an uninterested uncle who had something to do with mines in the lakes and not of a riding surname. Nobody could actually say Poppy's maiden name either, it was so foreign, though she herself had been born in Keswick.

James Burn came of the Burns, all right, but had shocked the family by going to university as a servitor and gaining a degree in Divinity and then coming back to the East March to be a minister of the kirk. Elizabeth had made the match at Christmas two years ago and had been there when they had married the following March. She had also prodded a powerful friend of hers into preferring Jamie to St Cuthberts with some sweeteners to the Elders to ensure his election.

“Well,” said Poppy, “I've come here and I'll not leave for a while.”

“I don't think you should ride anywhere until after you're churched, at the earliest,” Elizabeth agreed with her. “In fact, you should be sleeping now.” She picked up the milk and prepared to spoon it into Poppy.

Poppy shook her head. “Ye have to go to Wendron for me,” she said. “Ye have to. Please? Who's the living going to go to now that Jamie's dead? There's things I need like my other kirtle, there's his will, and who else can I trust? And make sure he's buried right. Make sure…” She stopped, clenched her fists and took a deep breath. “Otherwise he'll walk for sure.”

Elizabeth wanted to get away from that kind of thinking. “Ah,” she said. “What did the men talk about with the minister before they killed him?”

“I don't know. They were talking quietly, Jamie sent me out to get the wine and the wafers and when I came back he was…he was…”

“Can you remember anything, anything at all about what they said?”

“It was just talk. Oh, the older one said something about scripture. He was quoting some scripture.”

“Which verse?” Poppy just shrugged. “No threats, nothing?”

Poppy looked proud. “My man wis a man of peace, he was a man that turned away from war and reiving and toward the Gospels. But he knew how to fight, so if they'd given him any warning at all, or a threat, it wouldn't have been so easy for them. And he knew them. He recognised the younger one as I went out. He shook their hands and he was asking them about the Low Countries and were they back for good now?”

“All right, Poppy, I'll go to Wendron for you. It'll take a few days and I want you to stay right here and not go anywhere. You can borrow my English gown if you want to walk about, but I wouldn't even go out the door. Give the babby a chance to rest. He's had a couple of shocks.”

“You don't mind all that riding?”

“Not in the least.”

Elizabeth starting feeding Poppy the milk and halfway through she suddenly bent over and cried again.

“Och Jamie,” she sobbed. “You'll never have curds and whey to your breakfast again.”

Friday Afternoon 13th October 1592

Two hours later Elizabeth was in her green riding habit with her best black velvet gown trimmed with coney in honour of the funeral, a cloak over her shoulders and her low-crowned hat on her head, in a style that had been fashionable in London four years before. She was cantering north along the Great North Road that passed through Widdrington and had done for hundreds of years, the second-to-last post inn before Berwick. Young Henry rode beside her and the Widdrington cousins were two in front and two behind, very happy to have escaped from the eternal autumn job of clearing ditches and checking waterways. Young Henry was happy as well because he liked his stepmother and it always made him feel better about his father when he saw her like this, cheeks flushed, eyes sparkling, swinging along with the rhythm of the horse. She was riding a half-hobby called Rat, because he looked like one with his pointed nose, and had her jennet, Mouse, behind her for a remount.

They would break their journey at Bamburgh on the coast, and from there it was only fifteen miles to Berwick. They would take fresh horses from the stables in Berwick that Young Henry's father maintained, go into Scotland there in daylight, and into the Merse, and so to the quiet village full of raspberry canes that Jamie Burn had been living in.

They wouldn't be visiting the Burns in East Teviotdale, which was his family and a dangerous riding surname, with a Jock Burn in every generation. Jamie was the second son of Ralph o' the Coate.

The management of Sir Henry had taken half an hour to think about. In the end, Elizabeth had prayed about it to God and left it to Him. If God wanted her to go to Wendron, Sir Henry would agree and if He didn't want her to go to Wendron, she'd catch the Berwick market because she needed more salt, since the salt in the wet larder was poor stuff, and go home again.

As usual she was thinking about Sir Robert Carey while she rode because Sir Robert was always where her thoughts went when they weren't occupied by something else. His behaviour in Scotland in the summer had been disgraceful and then he had been ordered south by his father at the end of August. Since then she hadn't heard a word about him; she wouldn't hear from him because Sir Henry had forced her to write that letter to him, ending their friendship. She didn't know for certain if her verbal message had got through but she thought it had.

Sir Henry had overreached himself at Court in his attempt to kill Carey. The Scottish king liked Carey and had said some things privately to Sir Henry that he hadn't seen fit to tell his wife but which seemed to give him pause sometimes. There had only been one really bad beating since then. He always kept away from her face because he didn't want the rumours to start going round as they had with his first wife, but now he didn't use his belt so much. It was something.

Carey would love to have an excuse to kill him but wouldn't get it. Sir Henry was not a young man to be inveigled into a duel; if Sir Robert challenged him, he'd use a champion. And probably cheat. Nobody stayed headman of an English riding surname like the Widdringtons without being canny and clever and hard to kill. However Sir Henry had gout which didn't usually kill you but was very painful when he had an attack. She tried to think of him charitably as a creature in pain who wanted to lash out, rather than a man who enjoyed hurting her and humiliating her, but it was hard.

They clattered through the gate at Bamburgh just before it shut at dusk and up to the keep where Sir John Forster's unfortunate son, also called John, held sway. He was drunk as he usually was and explained the rotten state of the rushes and the filth of the solar as the consequence of there being no woman there. Elizabeth had seen worse, though not much worse, and accepted Johnny Forster's offer of the main bedroom which at least had a four-poster, though no clean sheets. Or blankets. In the end she rolled out the truckle bed and slept fully clothed on that because it seemed to have fewer fleas and much less dog hair. Johnny Forster was no threat to her virtue, not as drunk as he was, and with Young Henry endearingly sleeping on a pallet across the doorway with his knife in his hand.

She was up before dawn and saw no reason to awaken the marshal of the castle who had passed out in the hall while explaining how heavy his responsibilities were to his two lovely hunting dogs, both of whom listened carefully and were as sympathetic as they could be. From the state of the blankets in the four-poster they normally slept there with him when he went to bed. Not one of the servants in the place had changed the bedclothes since last Christmas at the latest.

She shook her head at it. Men were very strange creatures. Surely even if you were drunk it was uncomfortable to sleep in a dirty bed full of dog hair and an old bit of mince pie turned to rock?

Saturday 14th October 1592

They were out of a postern gate, opened by a heavy-eyed Forster cousin, and back on the Great North Road before the gate usually opened. The fifteen miles to Berwick were gone in a flash because the road was very good here, where the town council of Berwick maintained it, with hardly any potholes.

At the Widdrington house in Berwick they found that Sir Henry wasn't there. The steward explained to Elizabeth that Sir Henry had gone north of the Border two days before and was suppposed to be meeting the opposite Warden and somebody from the Scottish Court, in a secret matter. Yes, John Carey was in town and they could see him tomorrow but not today because he was busy, which she suspected meant he was hungover. That suited her perfectly and meant she got out of hearing John's perennial complaints about the town council and mayor of Berwick, as well as not having to deal with her husband. She, Young Henry, and the four Widdringtons stayed only long enough for breakfast, with Sir Henry's steward tutting because she expected bread and ale for six.

They were out the northward gate against the flow of people, crossing the Tweed on the narrow rickety Scotch bridge into the Merse, with Elizabeth now on Mouse with Rat behind. Everyone else had got hobbies from the stables. The hobbies needed a lot of persuasion to set foot on the bridge which was in a bad condition. This was one of the major connections between Scotland and England; couriers passed both ways across it every week—it was like Bamburgh. What was the point of not keeping it in good condition?

She shook her head again as her horse stepped off the end of the bridge and both of them breathed easier. No doubt the King of Scotland thought it was better to have a bridge that would not stand an army crossing it.

Wendron wasn't very far from the road to Edinburgh, the continuation of the Great North Road which was well-used by travellers and merchants, not to mention the ceaseless hurry of post messengers riding to and from London and Edinburgh. There was at least one bag of dispatches a week and sometimes one a day if Scottish politics suddenly got interesting. The raid on Falkland in the summer had produced staggering quantities of paperwork.

As they rode into the village they found two boys sitting in a tree by the side of the road and one ran off purposefully as they passed. Young Henry nodded approvingly. The church alehouse was full and the manse had a man standing by the door with a reasonably good jack on his back and a billhook in his fist. Young Henry dismounted and went forward to speak to the man who pointed at the alehouse.

Eyes watched as they left their horses tethered near the alehouse, leaving two of the lads outside to keep an eye on them, and went into the smoky commonroom. The laird of the area had died of a flux a year before, and his wife had died in childbirth ten years before, so the land was in wardship to the Crown and theoretically being administered by Lord Spynie on behalf of the ten-year-old boy who was the only heir and now his ward.

His grandmother sat in the best chair in the house, the Dowager Lady Hume of Norland, a tall hat on her head and a ruff at her neck, her fine dark grey wool kirtle under a magnificent gown lined with sable from Muscovy.

Elizabeth hadn't met her before. She thought she had been a great beauty fifty years before and her face still had the bones of it, but the flesh was gone the way flesh goes and she had two grim lines on either side of her mouth.

Young Henry did a tolerable bow and Elizabeth swept a curtsey to her. She felt dowdy in her small hat and old green riding habit, but on the other hand, perhaps that was all to the good. At least she had her furred velvet gown.

Grey eyes narrowed as the lady took in the whole of them.

“Whit's the interest of the Widdringtons in this outrage?” she demanded. “Our minister's been foully murthered and his wife is aye missing. Well?”

“My lady,” said Elizabeth, “Mrs Burn is at Widdrington and as far as we can tell both she and the baby are well.”

The creased face relaxed a tiny bit. “How did she get sae far south?”

“She rode, ma'am. She was in a terrible state and all she could think of was to get to me. I have no idea why. She rode Mr Burn's hobby south all night and came to us yesterday afternoon.”

“Is she hurt?”

How could you answer that? “She is getting better and I've had the midwife to her and she says the babe is well.”

The eyes narrowed again. “Why did ye come all this way?”

“I wanted to fetch clothes for Mrs Burn as I feel she'll be better to stay at Widdrington until she's churched and I wanted to find out the truth of what happened to Mr Burn if I could. And of course, Mrs Burn asked me to see to it that her husband is properly buried.”

It was an honest answer and there came a single proud nod. She didn't mean to, but her eyes locked on Lady Hume's. Lady Hume could choose to send her away once she had the clothes, but she hoped…She really hoped she wouldn't. She had liked Jamie Burn; he was a good man, perhaps a little hot-tempered, perhaps a little intolerant, but he had started a school for the children of the village and his sermons were only an hour long. She had come to Wendron to stay several times when Young Henry was in Berwick, and it had touched her heart to see how he smiled and let his wife speak and would find excuses to touch her hand or her shoulder and how Poppy would find excuses to do the same.

Touched her heart with envy, true, but it was good to see that a marriage could be…kindly.

“Ay, the truth,” said Lady Hume, the two lines by the corners of her mouth lengthening and deepening. “The truth is, we dinna ken. He was stabbed and had his brainpan laid open in his ain parlour, we dinna ken who by, except there were two strangers in the village. D'ye know aught of them?”

“Nothing except that two horses with West March brands were found by a man called Tully. He says they were wandering in the forest not ten miles south.”

“Hm,” said Lady Hume, tilting her head on its long neck. “Come with me.”

The manse was a scene of frantic activity as women scrubbed the walls by the plate cupboard and swept the rushes into the yard.

“Where's the corpse?”

“In his church, in the crypt.”

“May I see it, to pay my respects? I'm sorry for his death for he was a good man.”

“Ay,” said Lady Hume, “he was.”

She led the way to the church, where there were black candles lit, and down the narrow steps into the ancient vaulted crypt. Among the Papist statues lying as if it was a strange stone dormitory, was the bier with James Burn's body.

His head was actually in two bits, sliced through his face, held together awkwardly by a linen bandage. There wasn't much blood. The corpse lay as it had fallen, twisted to the right, though he had been laid out and cleaned and wrapped in his shroud ready for burial.

“Ye canna see the stab wound. It's in his back, the cowards. Stabbed in the back first, then that done by a good sword.”

Elizabeth took a look at the hands. They were big hands and the knuckles of his right were grazed.

“He tried to fight, I think.”

“Ay,” sniffed the Dowager Lady, “of course.”

“When is the funeral?”

“Tomorrow or the day after. Nae reason to wait about, some of the Burns are here already. His wife willna be coming, I think?”

“No,” said Elizabeth. “It's a miracle she didn't miscarry the wean as it is. I can be her proxy if you like, ma'am.”

“Yes, that would be fitting, Lady Widdrington.”

Young Henry had come down the steps behind them and was standing, head bowed by the body.

“Ye willna be praying for his soul,” said Lady Hume flintily.

Young Henry lifted his head in surprise. “No,” he said, “for his family and his wife. He's already gone to Judgement.”

Lady Hume nodded once. Elizabeth felt sad that you couldn't pray for souls the way you could in the old days that her nurse had told her about. What harm did it do? But only Papists did that nowadays and she wasn't a Papist so she kept quiet about it. Silently she asked God to have mercy on Jamie and keep him safe until Judgement Day.

“God rest him and keep him,” she said. “He was a good man and a good husband.”

Lady Hume sniffed eloquently. “A pity his wife betrayed him, then.”

“What?”

“Ay well, why else would she ride all that way? You mark my words, Lady Widdrington, the girl brought in the strangers to kill him and then rode off wi' them and she's told ye a fine tale to draw your sympathies but.”

Elizabeth felt her colour and temper rise at the idea that Poppy could have betrayed her husband like that, but she said nothing for a while. Lady Hume was a powerful woman and no doubt would be even more convinced of Poppy's guilt if she knew of the rape.

“I doubt it,” she said finally with a glint of humour. “I really doubt it, Lady Hume.” She shook her head at the idea.

“Well then, explain the death of Mr Burn.”

“I can't. He was a good pastor.”

“Ay, he was, a good pastor and a good dominie but a fire-eater he was not. His sermons were respectable and his life exemplary. He may have come from a riding surname but he himself was no reiver.”

Elizabeth nodded. “You're right, Lady Hume. He never showed any signs of being a reiver.” Lady Hume gave Elizabeth a long and considering look which Elizabeth returned blandly and then curtseyed low to her again.

They went in silence up the steps from the crypt and straight into the alehouse which was full. Elizabeth went into a corner, called for double beer for Young Henry and his cousins and mild for herself and settled down on the bench to watch what happened. The presence of Lady Hume made the church alehouse respectable. She wondered whether the lady had simply taken up residence in the manse for the duration. Elizabeth also wondered where she herself would sleep. At least she had an official position here for the funeral, so she supposed Lady Hume might do something about it eventually.

Jamie Burn had come from a riding surname of the Middle March and was a son of the headman. The Burns were coming in all day to the funeral, feeling the need to make a point of it, and she hoped that Lady Hume had brought supplies with her to help with that. She watched the man she thought was Jamie's father by the bar as he drank and stared into space and stared into space and drank. She wasn't sure what had happened between him and his son when Jamie decided to go to university. Had that been with his father's consent or had there been a quarrel?

After a moment she got up, left her pewter mug of mild ale on the table next to Young Henry, and went over to the man.

“Mr Burn?” she asked.

“Ay. Ay missus.”

“Are you Minister Burn's father?”

“Nay missus, his uncle, Jock. His dad's Ralph o' the Coate.”

“May I speak with you?”

“Ay, why not?”

“I was very, very sorry to hear of Jamie Burn's death, Mr Burn,” she began inadequately.

“Ye were. Why?”

“He was a good man and a good pastor. There aren't enough of those about that we can afford to waste them.”

Strangely there was a brief moment when the man in front of her seemed about to laugh, but she thought she had mistaken it. “Ay,” came the answer, “I backed him agin his father when he wanted to dae it.”

“You did?”

“I backed him, ay. His big brother Geordie thought it was hilarious, him studying Divinity at St Andrews as a servitor, and his dad wanted him to stay with the family. There was a lot of argufying.”

“I wondered if his father was against it.”

“Ay. Agin it. Ye could say that.”

“Will he be coming to the funeral?”

Jock Burn's face shut tight. “Ay well. I dinna ken. He might.”

“The rest of the surname seem to be coming in.”

“Ay,” said Jock Burn, “we need to make a bit of a show.”

“Why?”

He paused, thinking. “Somebody came up to a Burn, stabbed him, and part took his heid off wi' an axe. We're coming in so no one thinks we're afeared.”

“Good Lord, Mr Burn, I don't think anyone could possibly think that.”

“Hm. And I think kindly on ye, that the Widdringtons are showing support.”

“I liked the minister, Mr Burn. He was a good man.”

“Ay.”

She went back to Young Henry who was looking wistfully at a game of shove ha'penny that was starting up in the corner.

“What do you think about it?” she asked as she sat down with him again and finished her mild ale. Young Henry flushed and hid his nose in his beer.

“About Jamie?”

“Yes.”

“Well, I liked him too. I wish he wisnae dead. That's about the size of it.”

“Hm. What do you think about how he was killed with an axe?”

“It wisnae an axe; it was a broadsword.”

“How do you know?”

“Well an axe mashes up more of the flesh and that was a sharp edge that took him, right down through his skull at an angle, left to right. That's not an easy blow forbye, it was an expert with a good sword.”

“And stabbed from behind. Before or after?”

Young Henry didn't need to think. “Before. If ye get his kidneys or his heart, it's all over. He probably didn't even shout.”

She thought about this and nodded.

“Ay,” Young Henry said judiciously. “So one man kept him talking and the other went round, drew his poignard, and struck from behind.”

“They didn't want him to know.”

“No, well, he's a Burn. They're a' good fighters.”

“Even the one who got away and into the church.”

A fractional pause. “Ay.”

Elizabeth smiled brightly at Young Henry and left it. He went off to join the shouting crowd round the shove ha'penny board and started betting on it. Even without the murder, she was beginning to feel very interested in Jamie Burn and his history. What had he done before he went to St Andrews, and why had he decided to become a minister in the first place?