CHAPTER
3: JOURNEY INTO JEOPARDY
Copyright: Thomas Hoskyns Leonard, Edinburgh, October 2017
When
Friar Francis took Sir Richard and Cedric their bread and ale early
the next morning, he discovered his guests nestled cosily together
with their heads resting against Xanthos's protective right foreleg.
While
Cedric was taking a bite of his bread, his pony Augustus stirred, and
opened his deep purple eyes.
“I
must apologize for the Saint Agatha nurse's rude behaviour last
night,” said the congenial friar. “She'd eaten a few too many of
her Hebridean mushrooms. When we found the weird bizzom dancing the
Tarantella with the sheep, we had to muzzle her and put her to bed in
the cowshed.”
“Your
nurse is particularly well-educated for a woman,” Sir Richard
tactfully replied. “Dancing the Tarantella is a superb therapy for
victims of bites.”
“Perchance
the vixen had been bitten by a fox,” replied Friar Francis, with a
sly look.
“I
also ate too many mushrooms,” said Cedric, bleary eyed, “and I
saw a frightening apparition leaping out of the Cupidian Well. But
I've since dreamt wonderful dreams during the night, as if I were the
Archangel Gabriel in love with a poltergeist. And now the pleasantest
of all feelings consumes my entire body.”
Sir
Richard raised his knightly eyebrows. “You're lucky the mushrooms
didn't give you the Herod's Revenge. I feel a touch queasy in the gut
myself.”
“Forsooth!”
exclaimed Friar Francis. “If the apparition emerging from the well
resembled the Grim Reaper, it could have been a monk on a sleepwalk,
or perchance one of our creepy guests from Rannoch Moor. Since many
of our visitors partake of spices and potions, all manner of crass
and cranky things can happen in this isolated place.”
Sir
Richard gave Cedric a bird-like peck on his lips before replying.
“All's well that wends well, as Saint Christopher is ever ready to
remind us. After bidding our fond farewells to Lady Fiona, we'll
aways to sweet Edinburgh, where my loving wife Ingibiorg is arising
early to prepare our favourite, cordon bleu pot roast.”
“Tu
est magnifique, but there's nought like a dame!” exclaimed
Cedric, wiping the saliva off his sloppy chops.
“You
taste like une belle fille to me,” retorted Sir Richard,
with a smirk.
The
worthy friar chuckled like a court jester. “God speed, fine
gentlemen! You are goodness itself.”
“Take
care, kind friends,” squealed wholesome Kate, flourishing her sweet
smelling hands as she came through the door. “You may be embarking
upon a journey towards jeopardy.”
“If
so then Christ Jesus will take care of us,” replied Sir Richard,
with a wholesome grin.
Sir
Richard's hair stood on end when he and Cedric set off from the
Soutra astride Xanthos and Augustus. He feared that the journey might
become iconic in his memory for some reason or other, and he dreaded
that the apparition's terrible death prophecy of the night before
might have some rhyme or reason about it.
The
riders were approaching Fala along the Via Regia when a tiny
bird fluttered down from a weeping willow tree, landed on Xanthos's
tousled mane, and performed a merry dance. The Goddess Asherah, who
was treading water on the Sea of Yam, realised that it was a golden
speckled crowned kinglet, a very rare breed of wren which nested on
the Isle of May.
It
may be of small stature, mused Sir Richard, but the bird
that can fly to the highest loftiness will be made
king, according to some ancient Teutonic fable methinks,
A
black and white mottled bird with massively long wings suddenly
appeared from out of a dense pine forest, and circled overhead.
“Is
it a sparrowhawk or an osprey,” wondered Sir Richard, peering
upwards, “or the legendary falcon of Fólkvangr sent by Freya
herself? Perchance the double-headed eagle of Valhalla will follow in
its wake.”
“Begone,
sinister Raptor of Infernal Hades!” howled Cedric.
“Caw,
baaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa!” shrieked the bird, as if out of the
bowels of Hell.
“I
beseech thee to leave us,” roared Sir Richard, drawing Vindicta
from its scabbard.
The
eyes of the winged beast turned fiery red, emitting two silver beams
which struck Vindicta's blade in full swing, causing Sir
Richard to shudder and shake like a goblin on Rannoch Moor.
“Aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaarg!”
shrieked the noble knight as his sword fell to the ground, hitting a
granite stone and causing multitudinous sparks to fly into the
undergrowth.
Without
further ado, the bird dived at Xanthos, picked up the wren in its
beak, and soared towards the heavens.
It
took Sir Richard and Cedric several minutes to recover from that
totally bizarre assault from above.
Maybe
the strange bird and the wren will fly
higher than the eagles, pondered Sir Richard, but which
of them will be king?
When
they reached Gala, a mischievous-looking minstrel was sitting on a
bench outside the Church, plucking the strings of his lute. He took a
sniff of Cedric's scent while the squire was dismounting from his
pony.
The
wiry fellow coughed.“I can smell a Frenchman from six furlongs
off.”
Cedric
snorted. “What stinking bog did you leap out of?”
The
impudent minstrel laughed at that. “I hope that all fares well with
thee, Cedric de Porthos.”
“Declare
yourself in the King's name!” snorted Sir Richard.
“Me?”
chortled the somewhat sinister lute-fiddler, fingering his blonde
locks. “I'm the Troubadour of Arbroath, though my mother came from
fair Aquitaine to marry the master blacksmith who she loved.”
“I
find that hard to believe,” said Cedric, peering down his handsome
nose. “How do you know my name?”
“But
forsooth, I am a soothsayer, snotty laddie,” said the troubadour,
with a snigger. “Prithee! I take thee for a smellfungus. But let me
ask thee three questions, and I will sing thy life in song to thee.”
“What
questions?” Cedric brusquely replied.
“Have
you ever sowed the corn and gathered the wheat?”
“Aye.
In Pau when I was a child. The stones blistered my feet.”
“When
did thee last a fair lass haul into the hay?”
“Last
week, when the wine went to our heads.”
“Have
you ever walked on eggs?”
“Yes.
I stamped on grapes and raw eggs while we were manufacturing Cardinal
Santiago's Advocaat in Lourdes.”
The
troubadour fiddled with his lute and gulped like a Natterjack toad.
Just then, Sir Richard noticed a chubby, long-nosed fellow dressed in
wolfskins tying his horse to the branch of an elm tree at the far end
of the rose garden.
That's
one of the shady rapscallions I saw in Evensong last night,
deliberated Sir Richard, rubbing his jaw, but where's his
fair-haired accomplice? I suspected them of theft on the
Canongate. I wonder whether this ragamuffin has been trailing me from
the Soutra for some daft reason or other? He's
heading for a whipping with the harlots in
the stocks on Calton Hill.
“Music
heals the disorders of the mind,” proclaimed the troubadour,
plucking his lute, “as can the sound of water rippling, the shrill
of sparrows chirping, and the echoes of dragonflies buzzing, and
crickets hopping. Such has been known since the beginning of time.”
How
profound for a vagrant, thought Sir Richard. He has some
qualities about him.
Without
further ado, the Troubadour of Arbroath strummed a fine tune and
began to sing:
I
declare to ye, my fellow men,
Kind
Cedric is so sweet
And
he ties his gown so neat;
He
sows the corn and gathers the wheat
But
beware, fair Cedric when you next bed a bizzom
Or
you may end in God's prison.
Do
not walk on eggs or you will lose your legs.
I
forewarn thee of the mug from which you sup;
Do
not drink witch's potions from your cup.
And
close to your pony cuddle
And
protect yourself in your manly huddle;
Beware
sad deaths in a putrid puddle!
Cedric
extracted a coin from his purse. “Here's a copper groat for your
efforts, paltry heidbanger from Arbroath, though I can fit no logique
to your paroles folles.”
“Why,
merci monsieur,” the
troubadour dryly replied. “If
you watch the curious
colour of your skin when you next haul
a besom
o'er a bed,
then you
may see some wit in the manner of my crassness.”
“Away
with thee, feeble soothsayer!” raged
Sir Richard. “We're
aways
from thee to retrieve our sanity in
dear auld reeking Embro,
the city of the knights of Loth
and Arthur bold.”
When
Sir Richard and Cedric resumed
their journey, the chubby,
long-nosed
man in wolfskins leapt onto
his horse, threw the happy go
lucky troubadour a silver
piece, and headed north at a pace which was undoubtedly
fit
for his grand purposes
and schemes.
The
village of Pathhead consisted of about thirty hovels and thatched
cottages stretching
either side of the Via Regia
as it headed downhill
towards the shaky
wooden bridge over the Tyne Water. The last time Sir Richard had
passed through the drab
village he'd been pelted with
eggs and tomatoes at the
Alpin
well
by a pair of scruffy wizards from Athelstaneford. It was therefore
with some trepidation that the
travellers stopped at the
well to refresh their proud
steeds Xanthos and Augustus. They
also needed to take a pish, a task they endeavoured to accomplish,
side-saddle,
without taking the trouble to even dismount.
Cedric's
stomach churned inside when he saw two slovenly fellows emerging from
the
blacksmithy
with pursed expressions on their ugly
faces. They
were the retainers who'd ridden out of Dalhousie Castle on his
way down from Edinburgh, no
less. They'd gotten him into
trouble with his dear Richard by calling him a snoop, before
rudely demanding
his presence in the Grassmarket on Saturday next.
What
in the name of Beelzebub is my cousin Leofric up to now?
wondered
Sir Richard, re-buttoning his
codpiece.
I'll give these fishy miscreants short shrift.
The
retainer with almond-shaped
eyes cleared his nostrils.
“Greetings, unholy
Knight of the Sacred Orb. Your
worthy cousin of Dalhousie
wishes
you to detour
to his castle,
so that he may discuss with you matters of consequence affecting
James, our
King.”
Sir
Richard grasped
his sword Vindicta by
its hilt. “I
recognise you for the gaping
holes in your teeth, and I am no plotter
or infamous
traitor. How did you know I
was coming?”
The
chubby man in wolfskins who'd accosted Sir Richard in Gala scurried
up with his fair-haired garçon rouet, who'd spilt something
green and ugly down his yellow tunic.
“That's
because I told them,” explained the chubby man, “Rim and I
have been tracking you to and from the Soutra, with the help of the
wandering minstrel from Arbroath of course.”
“Traitors!”
howled Sir Richard, brandishing his hefty fist. “The troubadour
too! Logger-headed Judas's, all five of you.”
“I'm
no traitor,” moaned Rim Spit. “I'm for King Harry.”
“That
half-bred dolt's King of England,” retorted Sir Richard,
“tripe-visaged idiot-worshipper that you are!”
The
retainer with the strange Northern accent leapt onto his white
donkey.
“You
do not seem to fully understand, Sir Richard,” he announced, with a
flourish of his hefty mace. “Should you fail to parley with Sir
Leofric today, evil forces will involve you in a plot that could,
after much agony and gnashing of teeth, leave your festering body
impaled on a spike on Calton Hill.”
Cedric
de Porthos drew his dagger from its leather pouch and waved it around
his head.
“How
dare you thus threaten my Lord and Master!” he shrieked. “Your
face is veritably as ugly as an ape's rump. Go forth and die in the
stinking Tranent sewer, foul usurper of the peace!”
The
man in wolfskins peered
down his very long nose.
“It is you who will die first,
tight-limbed
garçon. Does Sir Richard know that you are paid ten
silver
pieces each
month
as a secret
agent
for the Lord of the Isles, double
dealing
delinquent
that you are?”
“I'm
no Viking's lackey and
no Judas either!”
howled Cedric, leaping from his pony.
“I'll
flay the skin off your arm for a new Janus
mask,
yes I will!”
Cedric
landed flat
on
his backside during
the intense brouhaha that ensued,
but
leapt
stridently
to his feet and
eventually succeeded in throwing the scroundrel in wolfskins headlong
into
a horse's trough. Thereupon
the retainer with dirty teeth seized
Cedric around his throat and attempted to strangle him.
Sir
Richard promptly jumped to the ground wielding Vindicta,
and
cut
off the evil-smelling assailant's left
hand with
an exquisite flourish.
That
accomplished, the bold knight pulled
the
mace-wielding retainer
off his donkey
by
the scruff of his pimply neck and
sent him squelching
into
the mud.
“All
praise to thee, St. Peter the
Rock,”
exclaimed
Cedric, struggling clumsily
to
his feet, “and to all pious Bishops of Rome.”
Sir
Richard performed
the
Sign of the Cross.
“God
bless Eugenius Quartus, God's Vicar on Earth!”
“I'm
not an enemy agent, I'm really not,” howled Cedric. “They must be
confusing me with the rakish clerk for the queen, even if he has a
longer nose and a bunion, and shorter legs than myself.”
“You're
no spy for
the Norse
Demon
of Cara,
sweet
Cedric,”
replied
Sir Richard, blowing
the
lad
a kiss,
“and
I can make neither head nor tail of the plot these oafs have
contrived
to invent.”
Cedric
grinned
like an algolagniacal
tiger
and
stuck
in
the
boot,
and
the lazy
villagers
and
the
serfs
from
the fields
roundly
applauded knight
and squire together.
“Let
us away to your fair lady in sweet Edwin's
Burgh,
gentle
Sire,”
said
Cedric,
as
his three
swag-bellied
victims
writhed yowling on the ground.
“Rot
in shit!” wailed Rim Spit,
hiding his head in a bucket.
Sir
Richard grinned at
Cedric like
a Manx cat.
“Do
remember to re-lace
your codpiece,
fair squire.
You would not wish to take
a chill in it.”
And
moments
later, the
partners in love were away
across
the
bridge over
the Tyne Water and
heading for the
comforts of home.
When
the two
horsemen
arrived, in
full jollity,
at Óengus
House,
the de Liddell mansion on Edinburgh's
Queen
Maud Walk, Cedric imagined that the archaic gargoyle on the parapet
was smiling at him and then thought that it was scowling.
“Home
sweet home,” exclaimed
Sir Richard. “What pleasures will the rest
of the day
bring?”
In
the flash of an eyelid, Lady Ingibiorg appeared at the ornate window
above the doorway and merrily waved her fists, one
at each of the horsemen.
How
thought provoking,
mused Cedric, feeling unusually
defensive.
No
rolling pin waiting for us then,
enthused Sir Richard, as he and Cedric ran up the smoothly carpeted
stairs, and
we've arrived in time for lunch.
Saturnic
kisses from and for
one and all? wondered
Lady Ingibiorg, with her hand on a delightful
thigh. That
would make
twelve altogether, methinks.
What
a wonderful display of emotion, mused
the Goddess Asherah in
the Heavens,
as
Yahweh
swam towards her with a red rose between
his teeth.
When
the brave companions entered the
good lady's
boudoir, Sir Richard was surprised to see his good wife lounging
nestled on the Angevin chaise-longue
with
a curvaceous
lass
who
was
wearing
nought but a familiar
looking
lace petticoat around
her neck,
and an Orcadian spider brooch pinned
to
her loins.
It's
the delightful Adaira,
observed
Cedric. The lass I
frolicked with in the Hermitage of Braid during our journey to the
Soutra. Methinks her mother's a drowned
witch and her father a burnt
wizard.
The
bizzom may not be the giglet she appears, mused
Sir Richard. She
may have some mysterious talents about her.
“Don't
look at me,” said Lady Ingibiorg, twirling her pearl necklace. “I
deserve my morsel
of fun
too.”
“How
delightful, darling,” replied Sir Richard, showing due tact. “I
am sure that you and this kindly lass have been reading The
Dream of Aengus
together.”
“I
found her sleeping in the doorway. She was a stranger, and so I took
her in.”
“Balderdash!
I
sent her to show
herself off to you
because of her excellent
talents in poetry and the arts.”
Adaira
McTaggart
glanced fleetingly
at Cedric. While
her
body movements were
not
particularly
subtle, they
sent him sublime messages.
“I'm
not interested in legend, and
there are no singing birds in my head,”
she cooed, “but I'd love to be part of your cosy family.”
That
made Cedric
feel
as concupiscible as an archbishop on heat, indeed almost to the point
of incontinence.
“I'll
toast to that! Why
don't we all take
lunch
together in the Saint Margaret Glaschambre,
and
eat elderberries for dessert?
A
glass of parsley wine would not go amiss.”
Perchance
I should ask the
hawk-nosed Bishop
of Edinburgh
to celebrate
my marriage to three
wives at once,
deliberated
Sir Richard, somewhat frivolously,
though
that
arrogant doubting
Thomas might
want to be
betrothed to me too!
Adaira
smiled strangely.
“Parsley wine is good for my head. It makes it ache.”
Lady
Ingibiorg blinked. “Unfortunately,
we've run out of partridge.”
“Perhaps
we should open the malmsey-butt later,” suggested Sir Richard.
“The
old vintage
is good for the
digestion.”
While
they were devouring the roast duck and rabbit, Sir Richard took
his eyes off the
delightful
Adaira
and peered
through the quarter-pane window and across the meadow beyond.
Firkins!
he
agonized. I do
believe that I recognize the minstrel who fiddles beneath that oak
tree. It's the wandering
Troubadour from
Arbroath who we recently encountered in Fala, and he's said to be
part of my traitorous cousin Leofric's desperate
ring of spies. How did the
knotty-pated
jack-a-nape
spirit himself here so quickly?
Cedric
smirked. At least
something's distracted
Richard from the
immediate desires
of my burning
heart, he
mused.
I'll plan to splice the knot
with Adaira in the roof
of the dovecot later.
Sir
Richard glanced towards his absolutely riveting wife. “What else
have you been doing while we've been away, darling? Have you been
mixing with our good neighbours in the Church rectory?”
“Those
heathen creatures are up to absolutely no good, dearest,” replied
Lady Ingibiorg, with a wry smile. “Indeed, the priest with the two
vertical scars and
a
knob
for a nose knocked
on our door only this morning, and invited me to attend Father
Kelp
Haggart's
Saturnic orgy in the rectory at midnight. I told the
ugly inebriate
that he was the Devil Incarnate.”
“An
apt
riposte!”
“Since
then, I'll been knitting you a new pair of sheeps
wool pantaloons.
I'm already halfway down the second leg, though I will
need to knit a generous pouch for the
rest.”
Cedric
choked,
sniggered,
and
touched himself in jest.
“You
have a wondrous sense of humour, dearest,” replied
Sir Richard, “With
that in mind,
let
us now drink a toast to Aphrodite,
the Goddess of Love.”
“Yes
let's!” replied Cedric, his eyes rolling avec
nerversement
in all directions at once.
“And
here's to
us!” announced
Sir Richard, in true Scottish style.
“Who's
like us?” asked Adaira, gulping her wine.
“Very
few,” replied Lady Ingibiorg, “and they're all
dead.”
Sir
Richard grinned. “Let
us, this afternoon, a walk across the meadow partake.”
“Methinks
we'll play a game,” said Cedric, relaxing
his eyes.
“You three are the foxes, and I'll be the snake.”
The
four companions spent a wonderful time on the meadow. They played
Ring around the
Mulberry Bush
and Lasses and
Knaves
together. After much moaning and groaning, Cedric got his wish, and
pursued the three 'foxes' through a rhododendron bush, wriggling like
a crocodile. When he got his face heartily slapped, they repaired to
the lily pond and all fell asleep while the faeries and goblins
snipped at their feet.
Since
Xanthos and Augustus were
well
bedded in the barn, Sir Richard decided, after eating
a lightly poached egg for
supper, to take a stroll to Edinburgh's High Street. This
elegant thoroughfare
stretched from the lofty forecourt of the Castle down the
ridge of the escarpment
to
the
Netherbow Port, the fabulously designed
eastern gateway where
the wall separated the city from the Royal Burgh
of Canongate
(which
sprawled over the foot of the escarpment).
The
purpose of Sir
Richard's
trip was a previously arranged appointment with the
indomitable
Sheriff-Depute
Brodie
Crichton-Cruikshank
in
the Pretorium,
a well-turreted building of several storeys
on
the High Street
which housed the burghal offices of Edinburgh together with the
municipal torture chambers and an
extremely smelly prison in
the dungeons below.
Sir
Richard knew that the
Cruikshank-Crichtons
of
the
haunted Castle
Trilloch in
Dingwall
practised
Druidic sorcery and child
sacrifices on
the nearby barrows, while
exploiting all good
Scots with their self-aggrandising skulduggery. But
he
assumed that the Crichton-Cruikshanks were a different kettle of
fish.
Sir
Richard well-realised that Sir
Brodie
deputised for his cousin the
fearsome
Sheriff of Edinburgh.
Sir
Richard was as scared of
the
canny Sir
William Crichton
as
he was of Sir Brodie.
Soon
after setting off, Sir
Richard fell into a zombie-like trance during which he imagined harpy
eagles
flying through
his mansion
from
the rectory next door. When
he emerged from his trance, he'd
already turned off Queen Maud Walk onto
Myrddin Wynd, a narrow cobbled lane between drab buildings,
apparently with
no windows,
which took him ever downwards until he emerged onto the Cowgate, a
prosperous
street on a lower level of Edinburgh where visiting
pimps
and prostitutes thrived amongst
the wealthy
householders
and
their inquisitive
international
guests
and
which ran parallel to the High Street way above on the other side.
Sir
Richard
took a few moments on the Cowgate to take a puff of opium with a
mousey-haired
and remarkably
slender, scruffy
lassie
from Penicuik, before throwing
her a coin and heading
for Mungo Wynd. He
speedily
ascended
the
dank and very narrow passageway
to the High Street on the volcanic escarpment above, and
emerged outside the much celebrated Stag
and Hornet Inn,
just as a widow
threw a bucketful of shit from an
attic
window onto the merry-makers below.
Sir
Richard wiped
his face with his silk handkerchief and gagged. After puking into the
gutter, he hurried
up the High Street in the direction of the Castle, dodging along
his way between
a myriad
of townspeople
as they
scurried in and out of the town-houses
and
hostelries.
As he approached St. Giles Cathedral he saw two bodies with their
throats cut, stinking
in the stanks.
And
lo
and behold! When Sir Richard reached
the market
place,
he saw a familiar face peering at him from behind a fruit
stall.
It was Rim Spit,
the
fair-haired vagabond he'd recently
encountered
on the Soutra and in Pathhead, but
now wearing a filthy brown tunic. Spit
was
the friend of the fat
miscreant
in wolfskins whose hand Sir Richard had so brutally severed during
the brouhaha with Cedric.
Spit
backed away, shaking
in fright, fell over a sack of turnips,
picked himself up, and fled down Constantine the
Second's
Close towards
the
Nor
Loch.
I
must be caught up in some outrageously broad plot,
mused Sir Richard. I
will need to keep a calm head on my shoulders when I talk to the
sheriff-depute.
I wonder whether the slick
lute-player from
Arbroath is still skulking around too?
Sir
Richard paused for a few minutes to recall what he knew about Sir
Brodie Crichton-Cruikshank.
The sheriff-depute
had worked as a young man as a physician in St. Leonard's Hospital in
St. Andrews where he'd
experimented at
leisure on some of his less fortunate patients. He'd
written
several learned manuscripts
concerning disorders of
the mind and advocated
trepanning
as an excellent way of releasing the evil spirits from inside his
patients' heads.
Unfortunately,
the burr holes which Sir
Brodie drilled into
their skulls usually brought about an agonising death,
recalled Sir Richard, and
often sooner rather than later. What
a brute of a monster!
And
Crichton-Cruikshank
lost his accreditation as a physician following his several valiant
attempts to silence the
voices inside
Lady Pamela Carstairs'
wrinkled noddle. His
fall from grace
occurred after
she leapt, sans ses
culottes and
with blood pouring from her ears, onto the high
altar of
St. Athernase Church in Leuchars.
What a tragic
joke!
Sir
Richard was appalled to think that as one of
Edinburgh's top law
officials, Crichton-Cruikshank
was able to use
his previous
knowledge as a physician and his
expertise
on 'disorders of the mind' to good effect when questioning and
torturing criminals and potential witnesses.
“A
combination of trepanning and Lackland's
Revenge is the
best way of putting paid to traitors to the king,” Sir
Brodie would say. “The
fools
are
left bereft of their balls
as well as their senses.”
The
Pretorium, sometimes
referred to as
the Tollbooth, was attached
to the north-west
corner of St. Giles Cathedral, to give easy access for
the Holy Inquisitors wishing to observe the frolics in the
Crimsonwood Chamber
below.
Grimwald
'Grimy' Grunwald,
one of the
Sheriff-Depute's
heftiest retainers,
ushered Sir Richard straight
up the marble staircase
to Crichton-Cruikshank's
third floor office.
“I
still have fond memories of the time we met in
Cracow, Sire,” said Grimy,
wiping the sweat off his
forehead. “After
partaking of the enormously
strong Polish ale, we fell
head over heels into a drunken heap.”
“I
don't know how the Polaks manage to keep their heads straight,”
replied Sir Richard, with a gracious smile. “I'm glad that I
persuaded you to become a Scottish one.”
“And
all the
better for it,” replied Grimy, squeezing
his crucifix.
Sheriff-Depute
Brodie Crichton-Cruikshank
was a clean-shaven, pink-skinned, portly, pate-headed man in his
early fifties whose lips seemed fixated in a permanent sneer.
Visitors could be forgiven for wondering whether he possessed the
mind
of a pig, since his snout bore a passing resemblance to
the tail of one of the sweaty beasts.
Sir
Richard thought that the sheriff-depute was
a parody of the politicians and oligarchs of that foul nature who had
abused the more sensitive throughout the ages.
His
personality is so gushing,
recalled the kindly knight,
that the mannies veer away and keep their backs to the wall in
fear of a squall.
When
Sir
Richard entered Sir
Brodie's
spartan
'Orchard
of Eden Room,' he did so with a feeling of distaste,
because
of all
the
scandalous
events
which had
reportedly
occurred
there.
Crichton-Cruikshank's
sneer turned
briefly
into
a frosty smile.
“Why
it's the Knight of the Hospice at Soutra,” spieled
the
loquacious
sheriff-depute,
cutting a chunk off his stuffed lamprey. “Give me the names of ten
more evil fugitives from justice, and I'll ask the king to appoint
you to the Order of the Mighty Doom. But
methinks
you may be one of the doomed yourself.”
What's
the sly bugger
getting at?
wondered
Sir Richard, with
a twitch of his ears.
He thinks in terms
of rings within rings and plots within plots.
“You
jest, I would hope, Sir,” replied the
courteous knight.
“I remain a faithful servant to the king, and may God protect the
right. However,
only
slender
pickings during my most recent trip
to
the House of the Holy Trinity, I'm afraid. A shady, long-nosed gulsh
wearing stinking wolfskins and his ugly, fair-haired sidekick.
They trailed me
and my
good squire back as far as Pathhead. The gulsh is now bereft
of
his left hand.”
“The
Lord
be praised,” responded
the
sheriff-depute,
somewhat surlily. “The
gulsh is the Roller of Shotts
and
his sidekick is
Rim
Spit
of
Lanark.
They're spies for the foul
Burgundians, and we're still waiting
for their
foolish plot
to
broaden.”
“I'm
sure that they will be drawn and quartered in the Grassmarket before
the fall
of the Autumn leaves.”
The
portly sheriff-depute
spat
an eye of the
lamprey out
onto
the barren boards of the floor and
took a munch of a rosy River Eden apple.
“I will devour their offal myself. But
did
you and
your fancy squire discover anything else of interest while you were
frolicking with the nuns at Soutra? I
would have enjoyed watching your sturdy
Cedric
de Porthos getting his cod-pouch
twisted around his neck by
the raven-headed
mother superior.”
“Scant
else,” replied
Sir Richard,
“though I was
honoured by the
company of the fair Lady Fiona McLachlan. Her noble
husband
is bestricken with St.
Cornelius's Lurge,
and I promised to represent her interests to you on her behalf.”
Crichton-Cruikshank's
cruel
eyes
narrowed. “That evil bizzom poisoned her husband's boiled
goose with a
spider and snail potion. The
Lord of Comely Brae
is a faithful Knight of the Royal Bedchamber, and our
gracious
King James sits and
pines for his grovelling
Schlosshund's
fast fading life. Lady
Fiona
will burn at the stake for her abominations after her own guts have
been packed with lice!”
“I'm
sure there has been a mistake. She's a wondrous lady.”
“She
associates with your evil, scheming cousin Sir Leofric de Liddell at
Dalhousie Castle. I'll
throw all of your confounded relatives to rot in a cesspit as
soon as I can set my hands on them.”
Sir
Richard gulped, and almost choked. “Methinks
the worthy lord
caught his malady from the tarts in the Cowgate, with whom he did to
my knowledge frequently frequent.”
“Beware
stupid knight lest we fill you with slugs
and worms, for
all the plots and intrigue that besmirch your unholy life!”
“How
dare you, Sir!
My only loyalties are to Almighty God, the King, and to Scotland, a
proud
nation
before
God
and
of
the Sang
Royale
itself.”
“Perchance
I spoke too fast and
should not too
quickly associate you with the guilt of your treasonous relatives,”
Crichton-Cruikshank
ponderously conceded,
unslitting his eyes. “I will send a Sergeant-at-Arms to arrest Lady
Fiona on
the
Soutra. She will be pinned
to
the back of the
camel Saladin and paraded along the High Street from
the Canongate for
all to deride and deface.”
“Prithee!
Mercy, I beg you.”
“I
am
merciless to
the core,
a trait which our
good Lord honours me with.
The evil temptress
will be interrogated in
the
Crimsonwood Chamber forthwith,
and tried by ordeal on
the Nor Loch as a witch.”
“May
I attend her interrogation? I'm sure that the truth will become
evident as
soon as she opens her sweet-smelling mouth.”
The
sheriff-depute
frowned, fleetingly, and
snarled.
“If
you are still in
one piece yourself.”
Sir
Richard scowled. “On
that note,
I bid you guten
Nacht,
König Schweinehund.
I
am
away to my mistress the Lady Ingibiorg whose munificence
is that of La
Vièrge
Marie
herself.”
Crichton-Cruikshank,
who
did not fully
comprehend
the Deutsch
language
and
thought that schwein
translated to princely,
grinned sneeringly.
“Await
one moment, noble knight. I am about to descend
my
secret spiral staircase to the Crimsonwood Chamber to interrogate a
felon who impaled a worthy citizen on the spiked
railings which
protect
the Grey Friary.
Would you, perchance, care to accompany me? You might be able to
suggest a question of benefit to
the prosecution of this case.”
Sir
Richard sighed, heavily. “Perchance I would, but I beg you to ask
your questions with all speediness and
to spare us the red-hot poker of Pontefract.”
“That
English relic will be kept
chained to the fireplace,” promised the sheriff-depute,
with a throat-warbling chuckle. “Queen
Isabella's Revenge and blood-eagling are for regal assassins, not
common or garden murderers however
felonious they may be.”
“You
are a highly educated man,” Sir Richard sardonically replied.
“I
attended the High School of Dundee, where Wallace was a pupil before
he shafted the English. I am of a pedigree of the highest order.”
The
hefty Polak Grimy Grunwald kicked away the rats as Sir Richard and
the sheriff-depute
descended
the damp,
limestone
hewn spiral staircase which
had been part of Loth's Tower before the Pretorium replaced it.
When
they arrived in the well-lit Crimsonwood Chamber, once
the very
deep
Dungeon of Aed,
a couple of plump
sheriff's
officers
with
painted faces and
dressed
as Pictish priestesses were
lazily poking a hairy, pear-shaped prisoner of otherwise non-descript
appearance with their pikes. The outrageously
noisy
fellow
was writhing in a pool of his own blood inside a huge, circular,
green porcelain-tiled
bowl, and
there were two gaping burr holes in his forehead.
The
sheriff-depute
prodded the prisoner
with his mahogany walking stick. “Why
did you murder the elderly
pawnbroker
with
such nastiness,
cretin
that you are?
It
wasn't his fault that he was rich and mean-hearted.”
“He'd
kept
my
pot
of pomade,”
groaned the
prisoner,
his nose spewing mucus and
his burr holes emitting
a
thick
yellow
post-surgical
flux.
“Why
didn't you pay him his pound and his interest for it?”
“Nought
in plate,”
gurgled
the
prisoner
“Sizzling
frying pan, Grimy!”
“Here
she comes, Sir Brodie, right
on the nail,”
replied Grimy, waving Robert the Bruce's favourite frying pan around
his gargantuan
head.
“My
best friends call me Chick,” mithered Sir Brodie.
“Aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaarg!”
shrieked
the
prisoner,
when
the pan smacked against his now
sizzling belly with
a loud clap. .
“Why
in
Heaven's name
was it worth killing one of God's people for
the price of
a pot
of pomade?”
inquired Sir Richard, quite sympathetically.
“Sard!”
shrieked the
prisoner,
now nearing
the end of his tether.
Sir
Brodie licked his chops. “Let's
rid
one
more confounded priest
of his misery.”
And
after further horrific indignities,
the
Holy
Father
died from shock.
“The
physicians of the
Pharaohs
couldn't have done it better, Chick,”
exclaimed Grimy, looking
most impressed.
Sir
Richard borrowed a Hebridean lantern from Grimy to light his way home
more
clearly. The
dark nooks and crannies were
alarmingly
frightening during the wee small hours when
the bog serpents came out to play, and
that nicht was no exception.
When
the
doughty
knight emerged
onto the
largely empty
Queen Maud Walk, he began to feel more at ease with the world. But as
he approached Kitty Corner,
he
saw two heads sticking out from behind a large,
noxious rubbish
box. They were the ubiquitous
Troubadour from Arbroath, no
less,
and Rim Spit, the fair haired, good-for-nothing hempie
who
Sir Richard had last spotted
in the Market Place by St. Giles Cathedral.
“Even
though I walk through the Vale of Death, I will not be afraid of
the ghouls,”
chanted Sir Richard, as the motley duo fled into the shadows of the
night, “for you are with me and comfort me with
your
rod and
staff,
Lord Jesus.”
Goddam
it!
he agonized. If
only they would translate the Old Testament from the Hebrew. Even
Gaelic would be preferable.
When
Sir Richard approached his mansion, a party-goer dressed as a
Hebridean storm hag ran out of the rectory next door.
“Come
savour the thrills within here, handsome knight,” snarled the hag.
“Better to your innards than the chills within there.”
“Begone,
devilish besom!” roared Sir Richard, but as he approached his front
door, the
mysterious
lass
Adaira
McTaggart burst out, hair awry and face white
in
trance. She
ran,
totally mute, across the road and away
through
the dark-outlined trees by the meadow.
Sir
Richard hurriedly entered his house, only to hear his good wife
groaning in anguish from up the
stairs.
The
bold knight promptly drew his sword Vindicta
and ran frantically to the higher floor. When he entered Lady
Ingibiorg's boudoir, she was lying on her huge,
white
feather four-poster
bed,
her face mottled green and black. On the floor lay an
upturned
goblet, its spilt
contents still tearing holes into the rug, is
odour mixing the scent of claret with a much more fearsome smell.
Lady
Ingibiorg's fair body was concealed by the sprawling body
of Cedric de Porthos, his skin stained with black blotches and
red spots
from his neck
down to his sturdy
thighs.
“The
sea-monster
poisoned poor me,” moaned Lady Ingibiorg, with a flick of her
yellowy-brown
eyelids.
“Who,
dearest one?” wailed Sir Richard, in
utter shock.
Cedric
bestirred himself from his coma, and
raised his head slightly.
“Twas
the
heathen in
the cloak,”
he
whimpered.
“Please
do not die, my precious ones,” howled Sir Richard, dropping
his sword.
“You are all that there is in the world to me.”
Cedric
sobbed, and puckered his now
ghoulish, dark green
lips. “Kiss me, dearest
Zeus.”
Sir
Richard twisted Cedric's head in his direction, yelped,
“Yes,
Aphrodite!” and
thrust his tongue into
his much-loved
squire's
poisonous mouth
and towards his gaping
Aquitanian
tonsils.
Cedric
quivered, but after a few seconds his throat began to rattle like
a timber
snake.
His body quaked several times in the throes of death, and,
all
of a sudden,
he
went limp in his good knight's arms as his soul sped to Elysium.
“Aaaaaarg!”
howled Sir Richard, extricating his tongue.
“He's
still within
me,” moaned
Lady Ingibiorg.
“Away
with ye, ghoulish prophecies!” howled Sir Richard, tearing his
hair.
“Come
to me,” begged Lady Ingibiorg.
Sir
Richard spewed
over the fluffy bolster before
standing
up and seizing
Cedric by
his bulging, seriously swollen, crimson
ankles.
He
contrived,
with some difficulty, to pull
the
muscular
Frenchman's
once
beautiful torso
back a foot or so, and succeeded
in
rolling
it off his
struggling
wife until
it was beside her, like
a sea-demon,
on the bed. The
smell was excruciating rare.
“Take
me,” whispered
Lady
Ingibiorg, “to
Eternity.”
The
forbearing
knight
coughed
and
spluttered
as
he ungirded
his loins. “I am here
for you,
my darling.”
Lady
Ingibiorg simpered as the juices flowed.
But when
she screeched
in ecstasy,
her
entire body
began to flutter
like
a butterfly
as her husband pressed ever forwards from within.
“What
is this darkness?” she groaned,
going limp as a stuffed goose, and she was gone to
meet Freya in
her
palace in
Fólkvangr.
“Zounds!”
screamed
Sir Richard.
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