In St Leonard’s College too the light began to fail as Nicholas came home. They brought him dreamless from the west towards the abbey, through the gardens to the chapel where they laid him in the shade. His roommate Robert Black heard the proctors raise the cry but did not go to look. He was acting on the orders of his principal. Gilchrist had instructed him to read the play that Colp was writing. Robert had found the play and read the opening act. Tomorrow he would show it to Gilchrist. It seemed to him harmless enough. But at the bottom of the box where Nicholas had left his papers he had discovered something else. They looked like private letters and he had not meant to read them, but a brown encrusted leaf had caught his eye. They were wrapped in a torn college gown, blackened with blood. The ink on the pages was smeared. There were several letters and a poem. The poem was written in Latin, in the neat, open hand of a child. The Latin was crude and filled with mistakes, but the meaning behind it was clear. It was written to the master from the boy.
Alexander to Nicholas Colp:
Domine adiuva me tranquillare
Master, help me still
And steer this ship.
Your presence calms the ill,
The raging of the seas that rise,
This vessel cast adrift,
Amidst the foam and spawn.
Steer me, hold me, lash and force
Me steadfast to the climax of my course.
Becalm my swell, for thou art both the seaman
And the storm.
Robert let the paper fall as he heard footsteps on the stair.
Kenly Green
Released from his fetters, Dun Scottis took to the road with a will and alacrity that pleased his owner greatly, and for a mile or more he handled well. But two miles down the track, where the path curved to the left with a slight incline, the horse ground its hooves in the dust and came to a halt so abrupt that it was all that Hew could do to keep his seat. He righted himself and shook the reins crossly, and in no uncertain language urged it to go on. The animal ignored him. It stared impassively ahead, as though it confronted an invisible wall, or heard a distant voice of immutable command, of more authority and influence than Hew’s. Hew struck it with his rod between the shoulder blades, just smartly enough to point out his frustration. Dun Scottis still did not walk on, but turned his head to gaze at him with such a look of sad reproach he did not have the heart to strike again. Puzzled, he dismounted. There was nothing on the ground or in the air to fright the horse; the birds were singing still, and Hew sensed nothing of that change of wind to which the nervous horse is tuned. Nor did Dun Scottis seem to be afraid. He showed no agitation, for he did not move at all, but stood placid and implacable as stone. Patiently, he waited still while Hew examined him. He was not overheated, and his hooves were free from nails. Hew took him by the halter and tried to lead him on. Dun Scottis failed to budge. Hew broached him from the other side, rapping at his rear end with a sharp tap of conviction; Dun Scottis merely flicked his tail against the hum of flies. Then, shoulder to rump, Hew tried to force the horse on from behind, while a passing farmhand gaped in frank astonishment. Dun Scottis stood his ground. Alone on the track, Hew’s options were few. He walked on a little, whistling carelessly, and hoped the horse would follow him. Dun Scottis watched unmoved. Hew had resolved to abandon him, full saddled in the middle of the track, when he recalled the horsebread in the ostler’s saddlebag. He broke off a corner and wafted it just out of reach. Dun Scottis considered the offer. At length he shuffled forward in a spirit of concession. Hew took a small step backwards and by degrees, by this sole means, he coaxed the dun horse home to Kenly Green.
In the woodlands surrounding her father’s house some four miles south-east of the town a young woman gathered watercress, trailing her arms through the stream. She laid the dark green tresses streaming on a square of linen, wrapped them carefully and placed the whole in a shallow rush basket, taking pains not to crush them. Then, wiping her hands on the front of her dress, she set off through the woods to the house. Her father’s lands spilled outwards in the lee of Kenly Water through fields of oats and bere and straggled sheep towards the stonewalled gardens of a country tower-house. They had lived here for almost twelve years, since her father Matthew Cullan had given up the law to return to the land. His pale young wife had died in childbirth, and he liked his daughter to keep close to the house. She rarely strayed beyond these woods, planted many years before when the rowan, the holly, the elder and ash had protective and magical powers. Now winter threatened, the trees were beginning to fruit. Hard little apples and cobs freckled the leaves of the hazel and crab. The holly leaf curled on the branch, the elder and ash fell bruised by the wind, and close to the house the rowan trees bowed, veins bleeding darkly to crimson, small crops of berries blistering red. Below the trees the last of the late summer harebells drooped, dropping their flowers. The young woman passed on through the gate. From the hedgerow she chose a posy of pungent wild garlic to add to the basket. Among the thorns were brambles blackening, yellow rosehips flecked with pink. She picked a few and placed them gently on top of the herbs. Already the muslin dripped green. Then, from her garden by the house, she gathered tender nettles, sorrel and sweet cicely, wild leek and the roots of the white carrot flower.
Hew saw her pass through the gate and followed her at some distance through the woods, for he did not wish to be seen. He set loose his horse in the field by the stream. While it drank he rinsed the dust from his own eyes and mouth and waited, watching her disappear within the garden walls. Then he walked the path she made among the trees, the holly, the rowan, the elder and the ash. The pattern of the land remained the same. He recognised the scent of smoke and garlic flowers, the honeysuckle dying back, the distant chanter of the gulls. And by the garden wall he leant awhile to watch her through the gate as she gathered the herbs, a girl of eighteen, dressed in moss green with ragged black hair. From time to time she paused to push the strands out of her eyes. Gradually she became aware of him, though for a long moment she seemed to gaze into the distance, pale-lipped, and he wondered if she saw him after all, until he called out to her, ‘Margret? Meg? Is it you?’ and she smiled. She was running towards him, shaking the leaves from her dress, laughing as she took his hand.
‘Here you are at last, Hew, and after all these years. You must be the grand scholar now.’
She was not as he remembered her. He recalled her trundling through the fields behind him, singing aloud to her doll. He realised he had half expected he would find her still a child, placid and trusting, or a country lass at least whose eyes would open bright to see his fine French clothes. He felt suddenly clouded and drab from the dust of the road.
‘You’ve changed, Meg. Quite the woman. Eighteen years old and still at home? And you so fair,’ he teased.
She tossed her dark head to look into his face, considering. ‘While you’ve a lass or two in France no doubt. It’s not so easy for me, Hew. I’ll not leave Father while he lives. He needs someone here to take care of him. He’s grown quite frail of late – it’s as if he went to bed one night himself and woke up the next day an old man. He’ll be glad to see you, right enough; he’s been looking out for you for days, since first we had your letter. But you’ll see a difference in him. We live alone here now. We have the house and the lands are let out in feu; the steward takes care of the farm. We’re done with the town and the court. But Father still finds solace in the old faith, and more and more he will not hold his peace in company. He dwells on Mother’s death.’
‘He doesn’t hold mass here, does he, Meg?’
‘Och, no.’ She did not look at him. ‘But he never goes to kirk. And he’ll set the dogs on the session if they come by the house.’
‘Has he really become such a fool?’
‘No, Hew, he has not. Which is why he needs me here to tell the world that’s all he is.’ She laughed at his concern. ‘I do it well enough. I’m off to kirk with my gossips every Sunday like the best of them, bonnet
and plaid: “My faither’s o’er frail to come today. He sends his steward and a dollar for the plate to help to feed the poor.”’
He felt uncomfortable with this sharp young woman, not quite a stranger, and looked round for a safer subject. ‘Is this your garden, then? I never saw such herbs. How do you grow them in this barren place? Are you a witch?’
‘Hush!’ she shushed him fearfully. ‘Not even in jest. I spend my days out here. There’s little else to do. I grow enough for our needs, a few roots and salads, potherbs for waters and simples. There’s not much ails us here that can’t be cured, except,’ she sighed, ‘for Father’s age. But help me gather in the carrots and we’ll go indoors – no, not that,’ she brushed his hand away from a feathery fern, ‘it’s this one here, they’re very like, you see.’ She scooped up the wild roots with her hand.
They ate the leaves boiled in a salad with plump pigeon dumplings simmered in broth. It was as good, Hew protested, as anything he had eaten in France. The liquor was heady and fragrant. He wiped out the bowl with his bread.
‘I brought you chanterelles from Paris, Meg – they’re mushrooms, Father, good with meat and broth.’
‘We don’t eat mushrooms here,’ protested Matthew Cullan. ‘Your sister already throws all manner of things into the pot; I never know quite what I’ll find, barley, berry or plum. Though by the bitterness of the broth I doubt she gives me physic on the sly.’
‘Father’s teasing,’ Meg replied. ‘He likes my cooking well enough. And I’ll be glad to try the mushrooms, Hew. I’ve cooked them once or twice before,’ her father pulled a face, ‘with pottage or a pullet, but I don’t feel safe enough to pick them from the woods. If I’d a mind to poison you, sir,’ she told her father tartly, ‘I’d have done so long before now.’
‘You see how she treats me!’ Matthew complained.
They talked into the evening hours, when someone lit the fire, and Matthew’s eyes began to close. A servant entered with a jug of wine.
‘If you please, sir, it appears your horse has broke loose, and has made free in Mistress Meg’s garden,’ she whispered to Hew as she passed. ‘We thought it right to let you know.’
With a cry of alarm, Meg leapt from the fireside and fled from the room. As Hew began to follow her he was intercepted by his father’s groom.
‘Peace, we have secured him, sir. He’s safe and well. But,’ the man appeared to hesitate, ‘you will not mind me asking, did ye buy him from the ostler in the marketplace?’
Hew answered grimly, ‘Aye, and if I did?’
‘I kent as much!’ the groom exclaimed. ‘Tis nothing, sir,’ he grinned. ‘A wee bit wager in the stable. Is yon horse Dun Scottis?’
Hew cast a nervous glance back at his father, who sat dozing by the fire. He had a notion he would not like what was coming, and did not care to have it overheard. He nodded, dropping low his voice. ‘Aye, go on then, tell the worst,’ he groaned.
The groom’s expression mingled pity and amusement. ‘Dun Scottis is well known here in the town. The bairns call him Dung Scottis, because . . .’
‘Aye,’ Hew interrupted quickly, ‘I can guess the cause.’
‘Well, sir, yon’s a limmar. And a limmar too that sold him. Aye, sir, he’s a rogue. And since you are a stranger here . . .’
‘He must have seen you coming,’ his expression said, too clearly. In deference, or compassion, he did not go on.
‘I thank you,’ Hew said firmly, ‘For this intelligence. You may tell your friends you won the bet. Now tend him well.’
‘You do not mean to keep him, sir?’ The servant looked incredulous.
‘Indeed I do. So give him food and water. Keep him well secured.’
‘That’s easier said than done,’ the servant grinned.
Meg returned, a little flushed but smiling. ‘All is well.’
‘I fear your herbs are ruined, I’m sorry for it, Meg,’ her brother told her earnestly.
‘He only had the carrot tops. I think you mistake me, Hew, for it was not the garden I was feared for. Never mind, let’s drink some wine.’
‘What’s the matter?’ Matthew murmured. ‘Did I hear the door?’
‘Hew’s horse was in my garden. But there is no harm.’
Matthew looked vexed. ‘How careless of the groom.’
‘In truth,’ Hew confessed, ‘it wasn’t his fault.’
His father gave him a long look, and he felt himself grow hot.
‘I have a dozen horses,’ Matthew observed, ‘that grow dull from want of riding. You are welcome, of course, to take any one.’
‘Thank you, but I have a horse,’ Hew insisted. His father smiled indulgently.
‘Well then, home at last!’ Matthew let the subject drop. ‘And now that you are here we must make plans for your future. I have found you a place as an advocate’s clerk. Tomorrow I will write to my old pupil Richard Cunningham, to tell him to expect you. He will be your master at the bar.’
‘I wish you would not,’ Hew blurted out. His father stared at him.
‘Well,’ he said after a moment, ‘if you want a holiday then we can wait a little. I’ll be glad to have you here. But we must not put it off too long. You want to be in Edinburgh by Martinmas.’
‘I do not want it, there’s the point.’ Hew took a gulp of wine. ‘Sir, I am resolved. I cannot proceed to the bar. I do not want to be an advocate.’
‘I see.’ Matthew raised his eyebrows. He looked at Hew for a long time without comment, and then enquired pleasantly, ‘Have you thought what you might do instead? I know you well enough to think you will not be content without some occupation.’
‘I might teach, perhaps,’ Hew replied, grasping at straws. ‘Or go into the church.’
His father gave a small dry smile. ‘My son, a minister of the reformed kirk.’
‘You had me schooled too well,’ the son said somewhat grimly.
‘Somehow, you know, I do not see it,’ Matthew answered lightly. ‘No matter, we will let it rest. I will not quarrel with you on your first night home. Peace, now!’ He waved his hand as Hew began to argue. ‘We shall speak of it another time. You are vexed, my child. Let me pour another cup of wine.’
They fell into an uncomfortable silence. For six years, Hew had been abroad, and Matthew had not seen him grow into a man. Now he observed the change in his son. Hew was a little more assertive and assured, though he had kept his boyish looks, for like his father he was fair, and struggled to maintain a beard. He had an open manner that would serve him well in court. It was Matthew’s dearest wish to see his son become an advocate. And yet he had misgivings. Though he did not doubt the sharpness of Hew’s mind, he sensed an underlying softness that appeared to be at odds with it. Hew gave his heart too easily, which threatened to distract him from the rigours of the law. He was too compassionate, too easily drawn in. When advocates were painting black as white, Hew would be distracted by the grey. And always, from a child, he recognised the pity of the thing, the human side. He was wary and fanciful, given to nightmares, dismayed by the cruelties of everyday life. The thoroughness of his schooling, where he had excelled, had not subdued or satisfied him. Always he had seemed to search for something else. Now the boy sat brooding, in a dark place. Matthew did not like to see him there. He cleared his throat. ‘I notice that your things were here before you,’ he remarked. ‘Where did you sleep last night?’
Miserably, Hew downed his cup. ‘With my friend, Giles Locke.’
‘Giles Locke,’ Matthew tried it like a claret on his tongue. ‘Do I know the name?’
‘He was my friend in Paris,’ Hew explained. ‘He’s a physician, an anatomist of sorts, who lectures in philosophy. We shared rooms at the College d’Ecossais. The new foundation requires the university to elect a mediciner as principal of the Auld College, though physic is not taught there in the schools. Giles came hoping to persuade them to reform, but both were disappointed, for the college is dismayed by his keenness and his youth.’
‘How old is he?’ asked Meg.
‘No more than eight and twenty. You would like him, I think,’ Hew looked across at Matthew. ‘He’s a closet papist like yourself.’
His father feigned astonishment. ‘I don’t know what you mean.’
‘He came a month or two ago to St Salvator’s,’ continued Hew. ‘But he’s unhappy there.’
‘And he a closet papist?’ Matthew teased.
Hew sighed. ‘There have been problems at the university. And I don’t know if you heard, there has been trouble in the town. A boy was killed.’
In Giles Locke’s north street tower a sleeping figure stirred. Nicholas felt something tighten its grip round his forearm as another sharp blade sank deep in his flesh. He thought that he could fight it, but the grip was too strong. His lips moved soundlessly as the blood began to flow. Someone was whispering ‘Nicholas’, watching his life slip away. He knew he was in Hell, and that his blood would ebb and flow forever, constant as the tides. But God had allowed him the solace of quietness. God was kind; he allowed him to sleep. He could hear only a far muffled drum, growing fainter, feeling it echoing slow in his heart.
The doctor stemmed the flow and sniffed the contents of the bowl, rich as a thick Gascon wine. Satisfied, he set the cup aside and tied the linen strip more tightly round the vein. He touched a little water to his sleeping patient’s lips, wiping away a strand of green bile. The stomach was empty, the waters ran clear and he had drawn off a quart of steaming black blood. He hoped the patient’s humours were restored. Though privately he doubted it, for the limb below the sheet stank putrid and hot. He laced the room with a wreath of sweet herbs to counter the smell. He ate his dinner by the patient’s bedside, a bad piece of mutton floating in broth, and longed for the cookshops of France. There was blood on his sleeve. It spotted the page of his book as he settled to read in the light of the lamp. When the patient lay quiet at last, he set down his book and took his pulse. He sat through the night while Nicholas slept, composing a letter to Hew. At daybreak he sent Paul upon a fat grey mare to deliver it to Kenly Green. Hew set off at once, leaving Paul behind to eat his breakfast. He waited only to collect and saddle up his horse.
Hue and Cry Page 6
