Rizzio: A Novella

Oi!

Yair is walking out through the front gate when someone grabs his sleeve.

‘Where do you think you’re going?’

Yair looks up. Five of the new guard, their own men: he can tell because their clothes are mismatched and home-made and the weapons crude. He points up the hill. ‘Town.’

‘You allowed to leave?’ The men look back and catch the eye of the officer in charge. He’s taller than them and his nose is so flat that the bridge of it seems to cleave inward to his skull. It’s Sheriff Thomas Scott, Ruthven’s man from Perth.

‘You know me,’ says Yair, surprised to find his voice is low but steady. ‘I’m Ruthven’s man too.’

‘Oh aye.’ Scott’s about to wave him off but stops, looking past him to the city.

Lights are appearing – first one, then another, then five or twenty – and they’re coming straight for the Palace gates. The men of the City of Edinburgh, four hundred citizens, walk in formation, carrying torches that form a river of fire.

These are the ordinary men of the town who have sworn to keep the peace, called from their beds by the Keepers of the Watch. Strange goings-on had been noticed down at the Palace: lights on and shadows slamming into windows, armed men hanging around the gates. The townsfolk had watched and seen and sounded the alarm. Provost Simon Preston is at the head of the Keepers. It was he who mustered the men, got them to arm themselves and leads them now, marching towards the trouble. They are all of a single mind, armed with lances and torches, fuelled by fierce loyalty to Queen and Government and Civic Order.

The river of fire pools in front of the entrance to the Palace. The guards step forward from their posts. They can see that the Keepers are not men to mess with.

Simon Preston raises a hand and the men behind him stop. They stave the end of their lances on the ground and the clatter makes Yair’s teeth ache.

The guards stand stiff and nervous but Yair is pleased in a way. He thinks the Keepers of the Watch are going to find out what they have done here tonight. He thinks they might charge them and kill them and he’s half glad that it’ll all be over. He sees Preston look up to the Queen’s apartments and the window of her bed chamber. Preston knows the Queen is embarking on her dangerous third trimester, straddling life and death. Preston’s own wife has had nineteen live births. He knows it’s a time of great danger.

The façade of the James V Tower is only about fifty feet broad with a turret at each corner. In between the turrets, facing outward, are two big windows, one above the other: one for the Queen’s chambers, the one below for the King’s. These are the biggest windows but there are smaller ones in the turret walls.

Preston tells Scott that something was seen to be happening in the Queen’s apartments: sudden movements, lights going on and off, someone falling against the glass. He didn’t see it himself but several of the Keepers here present were told by people who did see it. It might all be hearsay but he wants to know what’s going on, and now they’re all here he can see that the men are not Mary’s official guards. He doesn’t recognise any of them.

The Queen’s rooms are brightly lit.

Preston shouts up at the window, ‘WHAT’S HAPPEN- ING IN THERE?’

‘It’s nothing,’ says Scott. ‘Everything’s fine.’

‘These men…’ says Preston. ‘I know most of the guard but I don’t know any of these men. Who are you?’

‘Just filling in,’ says Scott, ‘It’s fine. You can all go home.’

‘Aye?’ Preston looks at Scott’s nose and hears his out-of-town accent. ‘Where is this you’re from?’

‘Up Perth way,’ says Scott. ‘I’m Sheriff up there, by Lord Ruthven.’

‘Ruthven…’ says Preston, knowing Ruthven is a bad lot, that the rumours are he’s a necromancer, and, whether you believe that stuff or not, it means there’s something odd about him. ‘I see. How come you’re guarding the Palace? That’s not for you to do.’

Scott doesn’t answer. He doesn’t seem to know what to say. The pause goes on too long.

Someone behind him clears their throat. Someone else drops his lance and it clangs loudly on the cobbles. The sound ricochets off the brickwork of the Palace and everyone notices suddenly how quiet it is. Normally there would be movement and people and horses and carts.

Grips tighten on lances among the Keepers. Feet shuffle and scrape as men part their legs to steady their stance.

Preston looks up at the James V Tower again and sees all the light spilling from the windows in the Queen’s apartments and the King’s below.

‘Aye… see,’ he says, ‘but to us this seems kind of strange. You’re not the usual guard, eh?’

Scott doesn’t answer. He smiles vaguely and looks over his right shoulder, mapping his men from the corner of his eye.

A moment’s pause.

Preston advances and raises his left arm. He gives a nod and the men behind his left flank shuffle forward. Preston raises his right arm and the men on that side do the same. Both sides are now spread out in a semi-circle, curved around the gaggle of strangers on the door.

The shuffling stops. Preston calls the order and the Keepers drop their lances, blades pointing at these unknown guards.

Simon Preston looks up at the Queen’s apartments and shouts, ‘IS THE QUEEN IN THERE?’