The Flower Reader (47 page)

My mother’s pomander.

Mother, I thought. You abandoned me for the nuns of Montmartre and I never forgave you, not for all the years when I was growing up. Help me now. I forgive you—help me now.

With shaking hands I pried the pomander open and began to dig again with the sharp scalloped edges. The scents of the lavender and thyme comforted me, and the halves of the pomander cut through the dirt. It did not take long at all for me to create an oval hole, big enough for a man’s foot, and a good foot deep. If he stepped in that, all unaware, it would certainly stagger him, knock him off balance.

I dug the hole deeper, slanted toward the doorway so his unwary foot would slide into it. Then I laid fronds of straw carelessly over it, not enough to look like a pile of straw, but just enough so it would not draw the attention of a man stepping into a dark room, not expecting it. I swept the dirt into my skirt and carried it to the back of the room.

And then all I could do was wait. I had to keep myself awake, taut, prepared to spring. How much time had passed? It had been just before midday when Blaise Laurentin accosted me outside the chapel royal, as the nuptial mass for Mary Livingston and John Sempill was beginning. Had it been two hours, three, five? I was hungry, thirsty, aching. My hands burned with pain. I flexed them gently. I could not
let my fingers stiffen or I would never be able to grasp Laurentin’s dagger even if I had the chance.

Tante-Mar fell down.

You are quite right about that. They did.

I prayed to Saint Ninian that it might all be a lie, but I knew it could not be. They would have fought for Màiri and Kitte, all of them, Wat and Jennet and Gill, fragile Tante-Mar, even gallant little Seilie with his freckled paws. I cried, stifling my sobs so as not to wake the children, and I prayed for their souls. I prayed to the gentle goddesses of the fields and the harvest, thanks for the oats and the straw, for the scents that spoke to me. I prayed for my precious daughters’ lives.

I prayed to the Green Lady of Granmuir for the strength to kill Blaise Laurentin with his own dagger and bathe my hands in his blood.

T
HE LIGHT IN THE CRACKS
at the top and side of the door faded, so I knew it was evening. Good. I would not be dazzled by a flood of light when the door opened. I kept flexing my fingers and walking from one side of the space to the other. The air was thick and stale.

I heard voices first, a good distance away. Boots, then, coming closer. I heard the scrape and creak of the lock being opened.

The children were still asleep. I crouched down beside them, as if I had been huddling there all afternoon. I flexed my fingers one last time. The blood had dried in the cuts and I felt it crack.

The door scraped open. It swept all my carefully arranged straw to one side. My stomach lurched; I had not planned for that. Even so I gathered my legs under me and leaned forward on my fingertips.

Blaise Laurentin stepped into the room. He was absolutely confident and smiling at me. His left foot sank hard into my hole, his ankle cracked audibly, and his whole body lurched to one side.

I sprang at him, screaming like a
bean nighe
. He was down on one
knee, hurt, off balance, and surprised, and I fell on him, biting and scratching like a wildcat. He shouted something at me and reached for his dagger. I sank my teeth into the wiry muscle of his upper arm and he screamed, swinging his other arm to strike at me. His fist slammed into my cheekbone and rocked my head back but I held on grimly. At the same time I got my own fingers around the haft of his dagger.

—and I felt the falcon’s head—

I did not throw my arm back to stab at him; he would have caught my wrist, and his strength was too great for me. I pulled the dagger free of its sheath at his hip and drove it straight into the vulnerable crease between his thigh and his belly, then with both hands jerked it sideways and up. If I could have gelded him with a single stroke I would have done it gladly. As it was his breeches lacings and codpiece protected his manhood. But blood spurted high and hard, bright red. He shrieked and let go of me, curling up like a wood louse to protect his soft parts.

“Màiri!” I screamed. “Màiri-rose, take Kitte; run, run, run!”

Màiri was awake; my first cry had wakened them both. She lifted Kitte by the waist and dragged her toward the door. Kitte was crying wildly, but Màiri was resolute and silent. I knelt over Blaise Laurentin and stabbed him again, aiming for his throat. The blade slipped off his collarbone and left a long shallow gash in his shoulder. More blood welled and soaked into his shirt. He grunted and flailed at me weakly.

Tante-Mar fell down.

“You fall down!” I screamed. I stabbed him again. He did not make another sound. “Devil! Coward! Fall down and stay down and may your black soul go to hell where it belongs and rot forever!”

“Maman!”
Màiri cried. Her little voice was thin and high. “
Maman
, come out; hurry!”

I lurched to my feet, the bloody
Escadron Volant
dagger still held tight in my right hand, and ran outside. It was cool and overcast and I could smell dung and straw and refuse and, faintly, faintly, the sea blowing in along the Firth of Forth. Oh, Green Lady, Saint Ninian,
the sea, the sea, the sea that washed everything clean. I swept the screaming Kitte up under my left arm.

“Hold my skirt, Màiri-rose,” I said. “Run, now.”

We ran down the alley. Where were we running? I did not know. I did not care. I had to get away and get my babies away. I think I would have run all the way to Queensferry if my path had not been blocked at the end of the alley by a man wrapped in a black cloak and hood, holding a naked sword that glinted faintly in the light from the street behind him.

I put Kitte down and pushed both girls behind me.

“I have a knife,” I said. I was panting with anguish and terror. “I have just killed a man and I will kill you, too, if you—”

Then I realized who it was.

“Nico,” I whispered.

His face was white as sea-polished bone. “Rinette,” he said. “
Sainte-grâce
, are you hurt?”

“No. Only a little. My hands. It is his blood, not mine.”

“And you killed him? Are you sure? Where did you get the knife?”

“Yes, I am sure. It is his knife. I made a trap for him. Nico, what are you doing here?”

“I was coming for you and the children.” Some color had come back into his face, and I saw his mouth twist in a bitter—why bitter?—smile. “But I see you have rescued yourself quite effectively. Rinette, we must go, quickly. You must not be found here like this.”

“I do not care. Let them find me.” I started to cry, gasping sobs that hurt my throat and chest. “He killed them, Nico. He killed them all, Tante-Mar and Jennet and Wat and Gill and Seilie. I brought them from Granmuir because I could not bear to be parted from them, and Rannoch Hamilton killed them. They were in the plot together, Rannoch Hamilton and Blaise Laurentin.”

Kitte started to cry again when she heard me crying. Màiri just stared at me, her eyes huge. I wished I could have taken the words back. Had she understood?

Metal rasped against metal as Nico sheathed his sword. “Did he tell you that? Could he have been lying?”

I choked on my own breath. It had never occurred to me to doubt him. I managed to say, “He told me. But they would never have let him take Màiri and Kitte.”

Nico swept off the black cloak and wrapped it around me, covering the blood on my dress and the ruin of my hacked-off hair. He was wearing a plain dark doublet and Venetian breeches with riding boots; he had a pair of saddlebags over his shoulder, so he was clearly prepared for flight. He pulled Màiri and Kitte in under the cloak as well. Kitte’s sobs quieted at once. Màiri clung to my leg as if she would never let it go.

“I have been staying at Maitland of Lethington’s house in the High Street,” he said. “Sir William and I both dislike Darnley more than we dislike each other, it seems. I will take you and the girls there, where you will be safe, and then I will go to Holyrood myself.”

“No,” I said. “I will go with you.”

“Rinette, you cannot take the children there. Would you have them see what your mad husband has done?”

“Surely there is someone at Lethington’s house who can watch over them for a little while. I am coming with you, Nico.”

“Let us at least get to Sir William’s house,” he said, “and then we shall see. Rinette, let go of the knife,
ma mie
. You have saved yourself and defended your daughters bravely, and you do not need the dagger anymore. Leave it here, in the close—it is better that no one sees you in possession of it, in case it is identifiable as belonging to Blaise Laurentin.”

I looked down at my right hand. I felt…amazement, genuine amazement, and a dizzy lurch of distress…to see I was holding a dagger so tightly my knuckles were white. The blade and my hand and my wrist were covered with blood. There was something about the dagger, something I had recognized, but my mind was so jumbled—

“I cannot move my fingers,” I said.

Màiri whimpered.

“Just breathe,” Nico said. “Think them open. I am so sorry,
ma mie
, that you had to do such a terrible thing. I am sorry with all my heart that Màiri and Kitte had to see it.”

“I wish they had not seen it,” I said, “but I am not sorry I killed him.”

I opened my fingers slowly. It hurt. I could feel the cuts pulling apart again. At last the dagger fell to the stone cobbles of the close.

The falcon’s head with its single red ruby eye winked at me in the light from the street.

The dagger I had taken from Blaise Laurentin, the dagger I had used to stab him over and over again in a wild passion of fury and anguish and revenge, was the dagger that had killed Alexander Gordon.

I
took the dagger with me. Nico tried to convince me to leave it lying in the alley, but how could I walk away and leave it when I had been pursuing it so resolutely, for so long? I cut a strip from my ruined overgown to wrap the blade, and thrust the dagger into the pomander-chain around my waist. I carried Kitte and Nico carried Màiri, and we were at Maitland of Lethington’s house within a half hour. Sir William himself was at Holyrood, of course, for the wedding celebrations; what his majordomo thought when we descended upon him in the dark, wild-eyed and bloodied, I never knew. He called for maidservants, who in their turn brought hot water, clean night smocks, and sugared porridge for the children; I was provided with a proper coif, at least, to cover my shorn head, and one of the majordomo’s wife’s own mantles.

I did not want to go to Holyrood. Mary Livingston’s wedding masque would be in full dazzling progress. Candles would be blazing, the queen’s consort of musicians would be playing, a hundred people would be laughing and chivvying the bride and groom with bawdy jests. In the midst of all that, could I bear to walk into
the apartments I had left this morning—just this morning! How could it be possible?—and find…and find…unimaginable horrors?

I did not want to go.

I had to go.

Nico put his saddlebags away, wrapped himself in his own dark cloak again, and we set off. It was about a quarter of a mile down the High Street to the Netherbow Port; silver glinted as it passed from Nico’s hand to the watchman’s. From there we walked straight down the Canongate. We did not say a word to each other. With every step I felt more and more dread. When we reached the palace one of the queen’s guards stopped us. Nico spoke to him quietly and another coin changed hands. In that moment when the guard was distracted I ducked under his pike and ran into the palace.

I ran. I could not stop to think, because if I did I would fall down on the stone steps and howl like an animal. To the staircases in the southwest corner and up and up and up, panting and sick. Then to my left and down the corridor—another of the queen’s guards stood outside a chamber, the chamber. I burst past him before he could move or speak.

Tante-Mar sat stiffly upright in a carved wooden chair—where had the chair come from? There had been no chair in the room before. Her head was tilted to one side, resting against the polished wood. Her coif was off—unthinkable. I had never seen her, not once, without her neat linen widow’s coif. Her hair was white, cut short. Her eyes were closed and her skin was gray.

Jennet More lay upon the bed. Her bodice and apron were dark brown with dried blood. Her profile was sharp and yellow as freshly hacked wood. Her hands were crossed upon her breast.

There was blood on the floor. Someone had tried to mop it up.

There was a body on the floor as well, laid out neatly and covered with a blanket. Beside it Seilie lay stretched out, his muzzle tucked under the edge of the blanket, his fur wet, as if someone had tried to wash him. His freckled white paws were spattered with blood.

The music and laughter of Mary Livingston’s bridal masque floated up the stairs and through the corridor.

Everything seemed to get very small and bright. My ears hummed. I felt hands on my shoulders and a voice from behind me, but it was all so far away. My stomach twisted and lurched up against the back of my throat.