The Green Man (27 page)

‘Nothing really. At least …' I hesitated. The thought had come from somewhere and it suddenly occurred to me that God might be giving me a nudge. ‘It's just … It's just that Mistress Beton told me that the Green Man has a particular significance for the Sinclair family. The coverlet on your sister's bed has an embroidered medallion of the Green Man as its centrepiece; a coverlet made by your great-grandmother or, possibly, great-great-grandmother Sinclair. You are related to your brother-in-law, I believe, by blood as well as marriage?'

John Buchanan had sunk back into his chair, a frown between his brows.

‘Yes,' he admitted, still puzzled. ‘Both Aline and I are – were …' He broke off with a choking sob that half-stifled him for a second or two, but then made an effort to pull himself together and continued, ‘I have Sinclair blood in me, yes. So, therefore, did Aline. But what's this nonsense about the Green Man? I know his effigy, of course. It's carved in a great many places.'

I nodded. ‘Robert Sinclair even has it carved on a beam-end in the back parlour of his house. Have you never noticed it?'

The frown deepened. ‘No, I can't say that I have.'

‘Well it's there.'

I decided at this point that I'd had enough of standing up and that if my host wasn't prepared to invite me to sit down, I would find my own seat. So I hooked one leg over the edge of the table and eased my buttocks on top of the litter of papers, ignoring his indignant protest. I pushed the tray out of the way, slopping a little more of the wine in the process.

Master Buchanan furiously mopped up the mess with his sleeve, eyeing me malevolently as he did so.

Before he could say anything, however, I went on, ‘Mistress Beton also told me that the chapel at this village where your aunt lives – Roslin is it? – the chapel built forty years ago by one of your ancestors – is filled with images of the Green Man.'

‘Oh, that place!' he said, his annoyance suddenly evaporating. He shivered. ‘It's a very strange building. Very strange indeed. Do you know it?'

I pointed out politely that I wouldn't be asking about it if I did.

‘I'm a stranger to Scotland,' I said, and was about to add that that was how I hoped matters would stay; that I never wanted to come back to this cold northern land with its bleak hills, its seemingly never-ending vistas of moorland, its dark, brooding forests and the winds that blustered in from the wild North Sea. Yet even as I spoke, other pictures crowded my mind; a grassy hollow clouded with harebells and sweet-smelling thyme; the long, startled cry of a curlew as the bird beat its way skyward with a whisper and rush of wings; a breeze that silvered the heather and rippled the face of a little black tarn; and, far away in some high glen, a string of goblin figures as a herdsman took his goats and cattle to the shelter of his hut for the night, sleeping, curled for warmth, against their stinking hides. I realized then that it was a country that could come back to haunt the soul.

‘Tell me about this chapel at Roslin,' I invited.

‘Why? What has it to do with my sister and that murdering husband of hers?'

‘I'm just curious. My lord Albany was so anxious to turn aside to visit it on our journey to Edinburgh that it excited my interest. There's no other reason.'

John Buchanan shrugged like one humouring an idiot.

‘It was built about forty years ago,' he said, ‘maybe not so long, by William Sinclair, last Earl of Orkney. In fact, I think I'm right in saying that it was never finished. Only the choir and part of the transepts were completed. A lot of the local inhabitants don't like it. Won't go near the place.'

‘Why not?'

‘It's the carvings. The place is full of them. God alone knows what stonemasons William employed, but whoever they were, they knew how to work stone. They carved it like it was butter. Mind you, some people hold that it's all the work of the Devil. They say that many of the images aren't even Christian. Some are pagan like the Green Man, the ancient symbol of death and rebirth, and he's everywhere you look. My aunt reckons there must be sixty or more carvings of him in the choir alone. Swears she's counted 'em. Mind you, I wouldn't place too much reliance on anything she told me. She's getting on a bit now. Wanders in her mind occasionally. I've also heard it said by those who claim to know about such things that some of the symbols are Judaic. Then there's the great pillar. I've never seen anything like the carving on that. There's a story about it.'

My companion was warming now to his theme, his grief for his sister's death temporarily forgotten. If I'd achieved nothing else, I had at least done that much for him. He went on, ‘They say the master mason let his apprentice carve it. Didn't think he'd make much of a fist of it, I suppose. Thought he'd have a laugh at the poor lad's expense and then show him how it ought to be done. He went away for a few days, but when he came back and saw this work of art, he was so jealous that he clubbed the lad on the head with his mallet and killed him.'

‘A gruesome little tale,' I commented. ‘What happened to the master mason?'

Once more, John Buchanan hunched his shoulders. ‘I don't know. And in any case, it's only a story. There are others. My aunt swears the pillar is modelled on one that supported an inner porch of King Solomon's Temple, and that the architect of that temple, Hiram Abif, was also killed by a blow to the head. It was a kind of ritual murder, she says. A blood sacrifice, if you like, to appease the wrath of God.'

There was silence for a moment and I realized that I had strayed a long way from my reason for being there, in that house in the Grassmarket. Ask a silly question and you get nothing but a digression; a lot of information which, no matter how interesting it might be, is of no use at all. If it had been God who nudged me to ask it, then He was playing tricks; enjoying a joke at my expense. (I wouldn't put it past Him.)

I cleared my throat and stood upright again, more papers floating to the ground as I lifted my leg clear of the table. I gave one last look around.

‘I'm sorry to have intruded on your time, Master Buchanan,' I said reluctantly. ‘And your grief,' I added as an afterthought.

‘If you are indeed acting on the Duke of Albany's orders, as you say, then I understand that you had no choice. But I assure you, and you may tell the duke that I said so, there is no need to look further than my brother-in-law and his paramour, Maria Beton, for the reason for my sister's death. All this talk of the discovery of a secret diary with its plans for Rab's murder and details of a secret lover, is so much nonsense. Just so many lies. It's something that the pair of them have concocted together. That diary will never be found, mark my words.'

‘And if it is?'

He made no answer, but shook his head.

There was nothing more I could usefully say or do. Aline Sinclair had had both the time and opportunity to pass the diary to her brother on Monday, the day they both returned from Roslin. But if John Buchanan had it and it was hidden somewhere in his house, there was no way I could search for it. If Albany wanted the place ransacked, he would have to arrange the matter himself.

But there was also the possibility that the diary had been destroyed. In John Buchanan's shoes, that is what I would have done. However shocked – or not – he had been by his sister's revelations, that would have been the sensible course to follow, even had she not been murdered. And if he had indeed been her lover, he must have been appalled to realize that she had committed her thoughts and plans to paper. I could imagine him cursing the stupidity of womankind. Perhaps, after all, this case would never be resolved. Rab Sinclair would be duly executed for his wife's murder and my lord Albany would have to reconcile himself to losing a valued friend.

I said my farewells and left.

I
t had stopped raining, but the atmosphere was still heavy and overcast. Above the distant crag, the sky was illumined, every now and then, with brief flashes of lightning. The absence of any subsequent clap of thunder suggested that whatever new storm was brewing was as yet some way away, but the effect was unsettling, like waiting for a threatened danger that failed to arrive.

I reckoned that by now the afternoon was almost over. Indeed, judging by my ravenous hunger and the gurgling of my empty belly I guessed it must be nearly suppertime. It was my cue to return to the castle and report such progress as I had made. Which wasn't much. I didn't fool myself that Albany would be pleased. People always expected miracles and instant solutions. They could never understand why it took time and patience to put a picture together, piece by piece.

I directed my footsteps back the way I had come, across the Grassmarket and through the maze of alleys connecting it to the Lawnmarket and so to the long, uphill thoroughfare that was the heart of the city, linking the abbey at one end to the castle at the other. It was not yet dusk, nor would be for some hours, but there was already a sense of traders at least beginning to think of packing up, locking their stalls for the night and sliding away home or to whatever dens of vice and iniquity they were patronizing that particular evening; an end of the day feeling that told me it was probably even later than I had thought.

I was within an easy few paces of my objective – I could see the sentries on guard at the castle gates quite plainly – when I was seized roughly from behind by an arm pinned across my throat and forced back against the nearest wall. A blast of bad breath, redolent of decaying teeth and garlic, caught me full in the face as my assailant removed his arm from my windpipe and placed his hands on my shoulders, making it impossible for me to move until such time as I recovered my breath. A square, pugnacious face, bristling with a red beard and topped by a thatch of the same-coloured hair, was thrust up against mine, while two extremely blue eyes indicated that their owner was contemplating violence of a very unpleasant kind.

A stream of rapid Scots assaulted my ears and my head was banged against the wall with a brutality that caused everything to go out of focus for several unnerving seconds. A swarm of very angry bees seemed to have taken up residence inside my ears. As another torrent of unintelligible language smote them, I did the only thing possible in the circumstances: I brought up my right knee with all the force of which I was capable and slammed it into those parts which my assailant had possibly been intending to put to good use that evening. (I had noticed on my travels that there was no shortage of brothels in the city.) He gave a yell, dropped his hands and doubled over, clutching the afflicted member. But the screech he set up had attracted the attention of other passers-by who, until then, had presumably thought the assault on me nothing more than a normal, everyday pocket-picking. Now, however, they perceived by the language with which I was berating my attacker that I was English, one of the hated Sassenachs whose uninvited presence was besmirching their streets. Immediately half a dozen stalwart citizens hurried to the aid of one of their own.

I backed up against the wall again, bunched my fists and waited. I wasn't prepared to go down without a fight, but neither did I delude myself that I was in anything but the tightest of tight places, or that I might not get out of it alive. The six men, already joined by others who had crossed the street to see what was going on, were advancing slowly, grins of anticipation lighting their ugly faces. They were enjoying prolonging my agony. My original enemy had been kicked unceremoniously out of the way, as he continued to nurse himself where it hurt and spit expletives at me. They sounded wonderfully venomous; I just wished I knew what they meant.

I shifted my stance against the wall and watched to see who would land the first blow. My guess was that it would come from the big man in the middle, but in the end it was a little runt of a fellow with a broken nose who dodged in under my guard and punched me in the chest. My height stood me in good stead: he was too short to reach any higher and I returned his punch with interest, giving him a bloody nose. It was no hit to boast about, but I had drawn blood and suddenly the grins were wiped from my opponents' lips as the general mood became darker. This was no longer a street brawl but a settlement of accounts with the age-old enemy from across the Border. I felt my stomach muscles tighten and fought down the impulse to retch. I knew now that this was definitely going to be a fight to the death. And there was no doubt in anyone's mind whose death it would be. Mine.

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.