‘Indeed?’ The librarian’s curiosity is roused.
‘You’ll not share this information with anybody else.’
Winter’s brow furrows. ‘Madam, these records are the property of the Crown. If an advocate requires them...’
Araminta is steady in what her thirty extra pennies must buy. ‘I understand. However, if it’s requested, especially over the coming few days, you must delay the information. Say, by a week. You’ve done an excellent job. It might have taken you longer, do you see?’
Winter considers this. ‘If there are further enquiries. Yes.’ He gives a perfunctory nod and leaves the carriage in possession of the extra money. As he enters the library he glances back, something of the fox about him, Araminta thinks, as she instructs Davey to the palace.
‘Are you sure, ma’am?’ he checks.
‘Of course.’
‘It’s only... Holyroodhouse is not what it was.’ He looks uncomfortable.
Araminta doesn’t enquire further. ‘There’s something I must see,’ she insists.
If the buildings from St Giles’ to the Tron Kirk are dilapidated, those below South Bridge have the feel of a rookery. Handcarts are roped to rusting iron rings outside the arches leading to brewery yards. Old washing lines hanging from the upper windows give the impression of greying, tattered flags running the length of the street. As they pass the Canongate Kirk, Araminta sniffs the yeasty air and notes that this place of worship is architecturally more to her taste than the grand gothic cathedral of St Giles’; more like St Mary Magdalene.
A barefoot woman carrying a heavy basket crosses the road ahead of them as Davey pulls up at the bottom of the hill.
‘Holyrood Palace, ma’am,’ he announces.
Araminta surveys the scene. The palace is certainly imposing, but if anything, Davey understated its poor condition. He helps her down from the carriage.
‘What is... all this?’ she asks, motioning at the ramshackle stone buildings on either side of the gates.
‘It’s the debtors’ prison, ma’am.’
‘At a royal palace?’
‘It’s been a long time since nobility have stopped here. Perhaps one or two, down on their luck. It’s a sair fecht,’ he adds.
She does not ask what this means.
‘Where’s the Chapel Royal?’
Davey points along the curved road at the foot of the hill. ‘It was there.’
‘Was?’
‘Some of it’s still standing. The roof has gone.’
‘Come with me,’ she says and waits for him to tether the horses.
Together they make their way past the old garden lodge towards the chapel. It’s a substantial building. Looming above,its nave open to the sky, Araminta wonders if it’s safe to walk inside. There’s a scatter of gravestones and a tomb upon which the engravings might still be read. No Lauder. No Maitland nor Gibson nor McKinnon.
‘I shall pass inside,’ she tells Davey.
He knows better than to try to stop her.
Through the gaping arch where a heavy door used to hang, Araminta passes into the nave. The Chapel Royal may be a wreck but it’s still impressive with a wide aisle on either side containing more burials and substantial columns that used to hold up the roof. Goosebumps freckle Araminta’s arms though she tells herself it’s only the cold. Kings and queens worshipped here and her ancestors too, no doubt. In Berenice McKenzie’s day this holy place might have still been in use. To one side there’s a centuries-old statue commemorating a man wearing a crown but it’s so badly chipped that his face is indistinguishable. She must be methodical, Araminta thinks, and starts on the north aisle, reading each of the plaques, several peppered with moss for the wind, she calculates, must come from the south-west. The stones are dedicated to noblemen, knights mostly, and one man a McKenzie though she doesn’t recognise his name from the family bible. Still, she lays a gloved hand in memoriam on the ancient stone and squints to make out the carving – a broadsword. This must be a McKenzie warrior. Slowly, she moves on to inspect what’s left of the apse. On the south side there’s a royal vault with a stone for King David and two King Jameses, one buried with his wife. These are the most ornate, some five or six centuries old, others raised a mere three hundred years ago.
On the south aisle there are fewer internments; a vault for the Roxburgh family. Three noble children all named Marjorie. Lady Jean Stewart. Then, just past the transept, a long stone in the floor, engraved to James Lauder and his wife – the secondone. It’s here, Araminta thinks. Her eyes dart. Then she sees it halfway between the royal vault and a small door that must connect to the palace. She doesn’t need to read the name to know that this plaque is different from the others, for it has a raised carving of a crown rather than a cross or statue. Below it, lines of poetry.
Pass this way in peace
All our pleasures praise
