10. Andrew

A NDREW Port of Leith, Scotland, 4th May 1613

I DID NOT ALWAYS SEE the dead.

That would have been a special curse, to ever see the wraiths that walk among us. But from time to time, on battlefields, I spied those who had fallen there and never found their peace. They looked to me like living men, till they came close enough for me to see there was a light unnatural in their eyes.

I noticed the man next to me because his clothes were out of fashion and because, like me, his focus seemed to be on the French ship that, having stood off in the road outside the harbour for some time, had just now finished docking at the wharfside here in front of us. The man, of middle age and armed with pistols and a sword, was doing me no harm. I stepped aside to give him space. That no else did should have warned me.

A younger man, sleekit – most likely a merchant awaiting his cargo – passed so closely by the other man he all but trod on his shoes.

I said, ‘Mind how ye go!'

Which had little effect on the younger man, who merely shot me a questioning glance, but the man with the pistols and sword turned his head to me. Nodded.

I saw his eyes, then. And I knew.

It still struck me to silence, each time that it happened, although by now I realized wraiths could not touch me. The thought of them did something cold to my blood. And I couldn't help wondering who they imagined I was. They were not of our world, but neither were they walking wholly in the world they'd lived in, and yet clearly when they looked at me they saw – or thought they saw – a face they recognized.

This wraith was French. At least, that was the language he was speaking when he gestured to his head and mine and laughed as if to share a joke about the fact I wore no hat. Had my own French been more accomplished, I'd have telt him that the fault lay at the feet of Phoebe Westaway, who'd distracted me enough that I had left our lodgings with my hat forgotten on its peg behind me.

But all the French I knew went little beyond how to count, and how to bargain, and the way to say good morrow and good evening, having learned that much from dealing with the doctor who had tried to cure my father, and whose ministries had left us an account I'd only last year finished paying.

To the wraith, I gave a brief smile and returned his nod, and hoped that none who stood with us along the Shore would see and think it strange.

Given his clothing and his nation, he had likely died here in the siege of Leith in the last century, when our king's mother, Mary, Queen of Scots, still lived in France, and with her mother ruling here as regent, thousands of French soldiers came to fortify this town against the Protestants and English. They fought bravely and fought long, but they of course could not hold Leith for ever.

In the end, as with all battles, one side had to yield. A truce was called. The French went home again. At least, most did.

The wraith said something else, and sighed. Then, brightening, he motioned to the French ship, and said something in which I caught the words, ‘Nos amis'. Our friends .

Again, I nodded.

There was little point, I'd learned, in telling him his friends were dead, or that he was. Wraiths never took it well. Instead I turned my full attention back towards the ship, and to the men who were now disembarking – in particular, to the tall, weary-looking man in black with clipped red hair and beard, his eyes downturned towards the wharf.

I stepped in front of him. ‘Sir David Moray?'

It was only a formality. I'd seen him often enough with Prince Henry to know that I had the right man. He was younger by a few years than his brother and had nothing of Sir William's swagger, but he had a quiet presence all his own. He raised his head and with a sharp eye took my measure.

‘Aye?'

I did not wish to make a scene, but I allowed my cape to part so he could see my scarlet doublet with its royal coat of arms. ‘I have a warrant, sir, by order of His Majesty, to take ye in my custody and see ye safe to London.'

I expected him to ask me what the charge was, but he didn't. At least, not directly.

He asked, ‘May I see this warrant?'

I produced it, knowing he'd learn nothing by it that should be concealed. Besides, while he stood reading, with his focus on the paper held between his two hands, it gave me the perfect opportunity to fit him with the manacles I'd taken from my belt.

He made no resistance. He simply looked down at his wrists, now bound together with the narrow iron bands linked by their chain, and while I finished with the second lock, he asked me, ‘Is this absolutely necessary?'

‘Aye, sir. I'm afraid so.' I'd come a long way to find him. I wasn't about to risk having him run.

Sir David studied me. ‘If you are fearing I'd try to escape, I could give you my word as a gentleman.'

I said, ‘I'll take that as well, sir. But till we reach London, I'll trust to these.' With the keys to the manacles still in my hand, I recovered the warrant and tucked it all safely back into my pockets.

We were starting to attract attention. Where the wraith had gone, I knew not, but its place was taken now by someone else – a living man who showed too great an interest in my conversation with Sir David Moray for my liking.

‘Come,' I said, and steered him with as much respect as possible along the Shore. I tried not to lay hands on him, but only kept a half a pace behind and to the side, to see he did not leave my keeping.

‘Are you not supposed to search me?' he asked. ‘By your warrant, you are charged to seize my books and papers, are you not? How can you be sure I'll not throw them into the water?'

There were several points at play. His tone was lightly dry, so I felt reasonably certain he was joking. He had so far been compliant with my orders. And he was, by several levels, my superior in social rank. But still, experience had taught me that it was important, from the start, for me to let him know I was in charge, or else I would have naught but trouble later.

I said, ‘Because ye have given me your word, sir, as a gentleman. And because if ye tried, ye would be going straight into the water after them, to fetch them back.'

His head turned, and he looked at me for a moment over his shoulder. ‘I shall keep that in mind.' A pause. Then, ‘Do you have a name?'

‘Logan, sir.'

I watched him thinking. ‘Andrew Logan?'

‘Aye, sir.'

With a nod, he faced front again. ‘Where are we going?'

‘Just there. The King's Wark.'

I hadn't told my cousin who I'd come here to arrest. All walls had ears, and though she was my kin, she, too, was of that higher rank that sometimes sheltered their own kind from justice.

More than that, her husband and Sir William Moray had both served the king together for so long they'd know each other well, and thus my cousin, too, would know the family. I was proved right when I came into the Wark's hall with my prisoner beside me, and my cousin's face showed shock and recognition.

But she tempered it, and crossed to greet us.

‘Lady Lindsay,' said Sir David, as he took her offered hand within his bound ones, bowing gallantly. ‘'Tis a pleasure to see you again, whatever the circumstances.'

She returned the honour, and asked after his kin, and these pleasantries continued for some minutes while I stood aside, impatient. But at length my cousin turned and asked me, ‘So now, Andrew, what will you be needing for your journey south?'

And from her gaze I knew I had her loyalty.

I said, ‘Two horses from your stables, to accompany my own. And food, if ye can spare it.' There was one more thing that would be better done by her than me. Her husband was the Searcher for the port of Leith, and in his absence she fulfilled that office, giving her authority to board and search and seize the cargo of all ships that anchored here. ‘Ye'll see Sir David does not have his baggage with him. I am sure he'd wish to have it brought here, for his use.'

Sir David said, ‘That's very kind,' though with his eyes he let me know he knew my motivation was not kindness. ‘I'd arranged to have my things sent on to Abercairney, but if we are going to London, it would be most useful to be able to at least have some clean shirts to take along.'

My cousin smiled her graceful smile. ‘Then let me go now to your ship, and see what I can find.'

She found one wooden chest, bound well with iron straps and locked. And a fine leather portmanteau of better workmanship than mine.

When both had been carried upstairs to our lodgings, I sat with Laurence Westaway while Phoebe and Sir David watched, and sorted through the items to prepare a proper inventory. There was nothing that concerned me – only clothing, and a tall hat with a turned-up brim, which on its own took up nearly a third part of the chest. I'd feared that Sir David, being a learned man, would have been weighted down with books that I'd have had to seize and drag along to London, as my orders did demand. But in the end, the only books I found were on his person, in the pocket of his coat.

Two books, both small, and both with leather bindings worn to smoothness by repeated readings.

Westaway, examining the first, pronounced it, ‘Xylander's translation of the Emperor Marcus Aurelius Antoninus's philosophical thoughts upon life, in Latin and Greek,' and noted it down in the inventory. The second book appeared to hold him fascinated.

Calling Phoebe over, he said, ‘Read this page, and let me have your thoughts.'

She bent her head above the book that he held open, no doubt glad it gave her an excuse to carry on pretending that I wasn't in the room. I didn't mind. I had work to attend to, and it was more peaceful when Phoebe ignored me than when we were arguing.

‘I don't see… wait, this is… this is not printed.' Her tone blended awe and the joy of discovery. ‘Somebody has done this by hand, very cleverly, so it appears printed.'

‘It had me fooled, too,' said Westaway. ‘But that's hardly surprising, considering who held the pen.' He turned the pages back to show her.

Phoebe's eyes grew wider. ‘Esther Inglis!'

‘Indeed.' Looking across to Sir David, who'd drawn his chair close to the wall as though trying to detach from all of us, Westaway said, ‘You're a fortunate man, sir, to own such a book. Esther Inglis is a talented scribe.'

Sir David agreed. ‘It's not my only work by her, but that was a special gift and I value it greatly.'

‘?"A Treatise of preparation to the Holy Supper of our only Saviour and Redeemer,"' Westaway read the title out while writing it with care into the inventory.

Phoebe watched him, stunned, then took the book carefully up in her hands as though it were a treasure and held it closely to her chest. She looked at me. ‘You cannot take this from him.'

Westaway said, ‘Phoebe, don't be foolish. Logan has his orders.'

She did not give way, her gaze fierce upon mine. ‘Our king owns books by Esther Inglis, as do people of the best quality at court, and nothing she produces is in any way objectionable.' Dismissively, she said, ‘I don't expect a man like you to understand. Books wouldn't mean as much to you. But when you care for them, to have them taken from you causes pain. What would you gain by confiscating this apart from being cruel?'

That was what she thought of me, I knew. That I was cruel.

I briefly looked down at the book she held. Then, seeking space to think, I reached beyond her to the table and took up the other book – the one in Greek and Latin – and although I knew I wouldn't understand the words inside, I leafed through a few of the pages. Somebody had written short notes in the margins, in pencil.

‘Are these your notes?' I asked Sir David.

‘No,' he said. ‘Those were Prince Henry's.'

His voice hadn't changed. He still sat the same way in his chair. But I thought I saw something pass over his face like a shadow that made me remember his brother's words, back in the stables of Somerset House: David grieves the prince as well. He should be given space to do so .

Grief was a shadow whose shape was familiar. And orders or no, I knew Phoebe was right. If I took this book from Sir David, I'd hurt him, and I couldn't do that. I handed it to Phoebe, met the challenge in her eyes just long enough to have the satisfaction of seeing it change to confusion, told her, ‘Give him both,' and, turning, put a few paces of distance between us, crossing to the window that overlooked the harbour.

Westaway said, ‘Are you sure?'

I told him, ‘Aye. Your daughter's right. There's nothing seditious in either of those.'

‘But your orders—'

‘—are to seize any books and papers and bring them safely to London.' I was well aware. ‘I've seized him , haven't I? And I can seize what he's carrying while it's in his pockets as easily as I can when it's out of them. He's not likely to throw either of those books in the ditch on our way to London, and if anyone wants to see them once we're there, then I'll take them in hand. Right?' I answered myself with, ‘Right.' Then took a deep breath, having no wish to show my short temper to Westaway.

He seemed unbothered. ‘You'd best keep hold of this, though,' he advised me, and when I looked I saw he held the final item needing to be inventoried – a small, folded letter I had taken from Sir David's pocket with the books. Westaway, unfolding it, said, ‘Letters, I know well from my experience, can oft hold hidden messages.'

At any other time I might have asked him what experience he'd had of hidden messages, but once again I'd been distracted by what I believed to be a swift change in Sir David's keen expression. That intrigued me, so I fixed my gaze upon Sir David, and asked Westaway, ‘What does it say?'

He read the letter aloud. It was brief, and had no salutation.

‘I am in receipt of yours from Paris. I shall meet your ship at Leith, and bring a horse for you. Safe voyage and Godspeed, Your devoted et cetera, Inchbrakie.'

I fought the urge to curse. No hidden message, but one every bit as ominous.

Sir David's clear eyes met my own.

I kept my voice calm. ‘That would be your cousin, Patrick Graeme of Inchbrakie?'

He was very good at hiding his reactions, but a trace of his surprise showed through. ‘I am impressed,' he said. ‘You know my family.'

Have a care . Sir William's words rang once more in my memory. Keep a watch out for my kinsmen. They're thick on the ground where you're going . Now, too late, I understood that final warning.

‘Aye, I ken your family.' Crossing back to Laurence, I took the letter from him and secured it in my own pocket. ‘See that your papers are safe. Get your portmanteau ready while I help Sir David pack.' His upward glance showed that he'd not yet caught up with my reasoning.

‘We need to leave,' I said. ‘Now.'

My haste surprised my cousin, but she did not try to change my mind. She had our horses waiting in the courtyard for us, with one small addition that surprised me in my turn.

‘A Garron?' I could feel my eyebrows lifting at the sight of the small, sturdy Highland horse, more like a pony, standing with the taller dark bay gelding and black mare in company with Brutus. ‘What do I need with a Garron?'

‘'Tis a present for the king,' my cousin said. ‘He asked my husband some months past to send him a Garron to carry the game for this season's hunt. Besides, it will give Hector something to ride.'

‘Hector?'

‘Naturally. He'll be a help to you in caring for the horses.'

She did not look as though she'd lost her sanity, yet I could not be sure. I asked, ‘What will his mother say to that?'

The answer came, not from my cousin, but from Hector, who moved past us with a saddle that he hoisted onto the Garron's back, atop the blanket already in place. ‘She'll say naught,' he told me, certain, ‘for I have no mother.'

As I watched the expert way his young hands made adjustments to the saddle's girth, my cousin said, ‘'Tis not as though I have a choice. Were I to keep him here, he'd only follow you, and I know you'd not have the heart to send him back alone.'

She had me there. And it was true that I could use an extra pair of hands to help me with the horses. ‘Right,' I said. ‘Sir David, take the mare. The gelding is for Westaway. And Hector, ride behind them, if ye will, and be my eyes. If ye see anybody following us, shout so I will hear ye.'

Hector seemed excited at the prospect. ‘Do ye think that anyone will follow us?'

Sir David, who had managed to swing neatly to his saddle even with his hands still manacled, looked down to meet my eyes. His were unreadable.

I said, to Hector, ‘Aye, I do.'

I understood the thrill my answer gave the lad. I'd been a lad myself, once, and I'd craved adventure. Now I was a man who must deliver this young lad, a dying scrivener, a lass who didn't like me, and my prisoner to London. All I craved now was a safe road, and a quiet one. I knew that I'd find neither. Our portmanteaus were strapped to the backs of the saddles. I'd originally thought Westaway would have to carry two, but with the Garron it made one apiece for every horse but mine. Mine had the pillion, which Phoebe, who had stayed some distance off from us, was staring at with mingled horror and dismay.

She said, ‘We came by ship. Cannot we travel back to London the same way?'

‘The wind has changed. The ships here will be held within in the harbour till the wind turns, and we cannot wait.' Which was the truth, although I did not add that, from the vision I had Seen at St Bartholomew's, when we were in the stables at my house, I'd been forewarned our way from here would be on horseback. Though I'd spared her father what exertion I could on their journey north, it was plain that, from here on—

‘I ride with you?' asked Phoebe.

‘Aye.'

‘But I thought…' She looked towards her father, as a drowning person looks towards the land, but he was already astride his horse and paying her no heed.

I guessed her thoughts, but I couldn't explain why riding pillion with her father was impossible without drawing attention to Westaway's weakness, and that was a thing I'd never do in front of others. I knew she would have rather ridden with the Devil than with me, but, ‘This is the arrangement. I've no time to waste in argument,' I told her. ‘Either come along or bide here. Make your choice, but make it now.'

She lifted her chin in the way that she did when accepting a challenge, but I saw the fear in her eyes.

I knew the cause of that, too. Leading Brutus a few steps away from the others, I gave her the space to be brave.

And she was. With her head high, she crossed to us. ‘How do I do this?' she asked.

‘Come to this side, the near side.'

She wore my mother's plaid wrapped round her – incorrectly, but I dared not show her how it should be done, and she'd be glad of it, regardless, when the sun rose higher. Between that, and the firm stays she'd trussed herself with underneath her jacket, I felt nothing of her heartbeat when I took her waist in my two hands and lifted her. But I could see the pulse beat strongly in her throat, and knew that she was nervous.

Helping her settle herself in her new sideways pose on the cushioned seat strapped to the back of my saddle, I tried to speak patiently. ‘Ye see this handle that's close by his tail? Take hold of it, that's right. Now, place your feet here, and I'll adjust it. Tell me when it's comfortable.'

Not every pillion had a platform, like a single stirrup, for the lady's feet to rest upon. Margaret, when we rode in London, liked for me to leave it off, to let her legs hang freely. But since Phoebe would be riding with me on a longer journey, and was new to riding pillion, I'd reattached the platform for her.

‘It's fine,' she said, though her face told me otherwise.

Still, she clung onto the pillion's handle, white-faced as she was.

Well done , I wanted to tell her, but she'd not have welcomed my praise. Instead, I gave a quick word to Brutus, who lowered his head so that I could vault into the saddle by swinging my leg up and over his neck. Brutus shifted his position as I did so, and I heard a sharp intake of breath behind me.

Looking back over my shoulder, I said, ‘Take hold of my belt.'

She did not move.

I said, more sharply, ‘Phoebe!'

In response, I felt her right hand clutch at my belt, and hang on tightly.

‘That's the way,' I reassured her, as we moved into the lead of the unlikely chain of travellers abandoning the safety of the King's Wark for the dangers of the road to London. ‘I'll not let ye fall.'