Hue and Cry

by Shirley McKay

‘What lie? I have not lied to you, sir, you have no cause to say it. I’ll tell my da … my brothers!’ To her dismay she could not stop the tears. He knelt by her side in concern.

  ‘Hush, child, there, I don’t mean to doubt you. I meant instead the lye for the cloth … a bawbee for the jakes. I find I have no call at present to make water. Here, take a shilling, don’t cry.’

  Why indeed should she lie, he was wondering. What might she know? And who was the lass she had spied on the road?

  Jennie dried her eyes. Maybe she would run away, and make a better life. She knew ways to make a shilling now, and more than one. This man had paid as much for tears as the other had for silence. Or had that been for showing off her arse? She wasn’t sure. She knew it did not matter. She could give it all, her secrets, silence, tears and lies, to please a man who dandled her. Who else would love her now her da was gone?

  Hamesucken

  Hew returned to Kenly Water as the mists began to fall, reining his horse through the haar to the track. He felt Dun Scottis tense beneath him, quivering hot, picking reluctantly over the stones. The rubble path dissolved into the landscape, flowing loose as water from the shoreline to the sky. At last they saw the yellow smudge of lamplight bleeding through the edges of the fog. The windows of the tower house flared with candles, row upon row, spiking the mist with the scent of their smoke. Hew dismounted gratefully and walked the last yards to the gate, where Meg ran up to greet him, crying out, unshod with streaming hair and wanton as a wean expecting toys. He held her at arm’s length, perplexed at this wildness, chilled and remote in the lap of the fog. But Meg was ablaze, aflame in the candlelight, kissing him, prattling off questions, pulling him in to the warmth of the fire.

  ‘The haar came so thick we were feart you were lost, Hew. You’re late! Come then, your cloak! Leave the horse for the groom. What’s the news? I’ve physic prepared for your friend.’

  In response he felt heavy and dull, having little to tell but the bare scraps and rags of the day. At length the bright flush of her chatter fell away. She fetched them slabs of beef and sippet wine. They ate and drank in quietness, curled by the edge of the fire. Matthew too was dour and silent. He frowned a little, looking at the pages of a book, until his daughter stretched out on the hearthrug like a cat, declaring that she was worn to a shade and was off to her bed. Hew downed his cup and followed her, his footsteps trailing hers upon the stairs.

  In the dark folds of his father’s house he slept like a child, in a blue Flanders coverlet patterned with leaves. Still he felt cold, even here, the dense feather mattress drawn closed from the draughts, thick pleats of yellow velvet sewn with white and scarlet flowers. Against the pitter of the moths he dreamt of violet-puddled shrouds. He saw Nicholas lying, a flower in his mouth, a dark fragrant bloom of bright blood. He knelt down to touch it. It burst like a poppyhead spilling its seed, streaming black blood to his hands. Nicholas screamed. Hew dreamt the sound had woken him, but still the dream went on. He heard the voice again and woke at last to find himself still cloaked within the choking drapes and fabrics of the bed. Agape in the blackness, he wrenched at the air. The drapes fell apart and the shadows reformed, shaping the windows, the closet, the door, the pallor and the coolness of the stone. For a while he lay watchful, allowing the fear to subside. Sleep did not come. He rose and lit a candle, feeling for the floor. In the depths of the hallway the lamplight still burned. He opened the door to find Matthew awake, stirring a pot by the fire. The old man turned to smile at him, ghostly in the flame.

  ‘Come away with you, Hew. I heard you cry out. I’ve a posset on the boil. You’ll sit here awhile, will you not?’

  Hew pulled up a gossip-chair, shaking his head. He felt raw to the bone.

  ‘A little wine. I thank you, no. I confess to you, sir, I’m sick to the stomach tonight.’

  ‘As you will then, some wine. A little talk perhaps, as physic for the soul. I’ll set the pot here on the hearthstone. See, it thickens nicely. In an hour or so we’ll sup it, for you’ll likely change your mind.’

  They sat in silence while he stirred, Hew thinking, ‘If he sups it through his beard without a spoon I’m like to spew into the flames, God help us both.’ It looked like vomit, freshly brewed. He took the goblet of wine in his hands and cradled it close. His father was watching him keenly, nurturing the fire.

  ‘You’re shivering, child. Won’t you go back to your bed?’

  Hew smiled, for he felt like a child, frightened from sleep by his dreams.

  ‘It isn’t the cold, only thoughts. And wild dreams that woke me. I’ll drink a cup to chase the ghosts before I go. Do you remember, Father, how we used to beat them from the bed?’

  ‘Your mother’s face when once we brought the drapes down was enough to fright them all. I doubt they ever dared come back again.’

  There was silence, a crack of sharp flame, and then Matthew said gently, ‘Have you come to the truth of it then?’

  Briefly, Hew recounted the events of the day. His father stirred and listened all the while. At length he left the posset on the hearth.

  ‘Not Colp who killed the dyer. Nor the son, who does the dyeing now the dyer’s dead. A pretty pun. Then could it be the wife perhaps? She does well enough without the man.’

  ‘The woman’s with child. It could scarcely be her.’

  ‘She would not be the first. Consider it hamesucken then . . .’

  ‘I had not considered it.’

  ‘To come like a friend, but with evil intent,’ Matthew glanced around, ‘even here, to the home, where a man is most unguarded and lax.’ He glowered into the posset pot suspiciously. Hew felt the dampness of the fog beneath his shirt. ‘Hamesucken,’ he objected, ‘is a worse charge still.’

  ‘True, a little worse,’ Matthew acknowledged. ‘But I believe we may acquit your friend of it. Now, let’s suppose that someone with a grudge despatched the dyer. Meanwhile Nicholas comes by to beg a pinch of saffron for his shirts, when falling faint with fever, and the smell …’

  Hew smiled and shook his head. ‘You were lost to the law. You plead the case so plausibly I almost could believe it – aye, I do believe it – if it wasn’t for the letters and the poem. It is the boy. The dyer counts nothing in this. But for the boy, I cannot find a plea, another explanation, but that Nicholas was guilty of his death. I’m not sure I can speak for him. The penalties are cruel. Perhaps it would be better if he died.’ His voice had dropped low. Matthew leant close.

  ‘Look, though, Hew,’ he urged, ‘the case is not proved. There is a wildness in the letters, but it’s coming from the child. How can we know how Nicholas responded? Perhaps he corrected or counselled the boy, and kept the letters safely for his own defence. They do not prove he was complicit in the boy’s affections. He received them, but he did not write them.’

  ‘The evidence is plain enough. He wrapped them in a blood-soaked gown.’

  ‘Aye, there’s that,’ conceded Matthew. ‘You must ask him to explain it.’

  Hew shook his head hopelessly. ‘Ask him? If only I could!’

  ‘I had forgotten. Meg explained he could not speak.’

  ‘Then I wish she would explain to me. She keeps her counsel close. As you do, sir,’ retorted Hew.

  ‘What counsel can you mean? The broken jaw? You spoke of it yourself.’

  ‘It came as no surprise to her. And here’s another puzzle. Giles refused to let me see him. He claims he’s close to death yet leaves him unattended half the day. And as for Meg, he spun some tale about a woman’s courses – now then, sir, I see you start; I knew it for a lie. She’s bright and wild as any child tonight. Do you suppose I don’t detect the change in her?’

  Matthew rubbed his beard. ‘Her courses, you say? Well, in truth, boy, you do make me start. For what should I know of such things? I wonder you allude to them. Your doctor knows nothing. He probes in the dark. Don’t you know that physicians are fools? And yet I do know why he’s anxious to conceal your friend, and I t
hank God for it. For it involves Meg, as you say. Be quiet and I’ll tell you. Don’t interrupt awhile. You really must acquire the skill of letting people talk if you would practise playing advocate. I’ll lose my place with your forever butting in.’

  Hew, who had not said a word, swilled down his reply with a deep draught of wine and stared into the fire. Satisfied, Matthew began. ‘I have my own ghosts which keep me from my bed these darkening nights, and most concern your sister. I am afraid I was wrong to allow her to be drawn into this. She is in danger, and what I am about to tell you must be kept secret, even from your friend the doctor. You will recall your mother died when Meg was born, and for a while it seemed unlikely that the lass would live. She was a scabbed, unholy creature, born before her time, still covered with the hairs that wrapped her in the womb. You’ll understand I thought she was the devil’s child, a matricide, livid-black and squalling. I wanted to cast her aside. But the midwife looked after her. The wife was Annie Law, who stayed with us until she died four years ago. She took Meg to her home and gave her suck – I know not how for Annie Law was ancient even then. And in a month or so the infant seemed to thrive. The coarse hair had rubbed off and she grew quite a mane of black curls, and she smiled with her mother’s green eyes. She was beautiful, Hew. She came home to us.

  ‘And for the next few years we stayed there in the High Street. I took you into town to see the courts, and by and by you joined the grammar school. Meg was ay a dreamer; she used to gaze out of the casement up at nothing sometimes. When we spoke to her, she scarcely seemed to hear. Annie said she saw her mother, that she had the gift; I bade her hold her tongue. But the child became ever more distant. She slept very deep, as if nothing would wake her. At last when she was six years old upon a bright June day she went out with Annie to play on the green. The sky was cloudless fair. I was at the sessions. I can still recall the case. You were in the schoolhouse at your books, and Annie, she came running into court to tell me Meg had had a great seizure there on the green, frothing and foaming. She couldn’t be waked. The men were feart to lift her. They called her possessed. And Annie Law carried her home. I knew at last what I had always feared; she had the falling sickness. It was in your mother’s blood.’

  At last Hew broke his silence. ‘She has the falling sickness, and for all these years . . . I took her into town. The noise and dust disturbed her . . . You should have told me, sir!’

  ‘She would not have it,’ Matthew answered sadly. ‘She did not want it so.’

  ‘But I have never known. And all those years ago . . .’

  ‘You were just a child. For pity, Hew, how could I have told you? Your sister suffered cruelly, I’m ashamed to say. Blistered and purged, bloodied and blessed, she howled at the doctors and spat at the priest. I left the town and courts, and put you to school, to bring her here, where she could live in safety and in quietness. Annie told us she was blessed, not cursed by God. She planted the gardens with herbs. She showed Meg prophylactics, how she might protect herself and so deflect the fits. And so we have lived here in quietness since, Meg learning how to grow the plants that keep her well, away from the stoor of the town.’

  They sat silent for a while, until Hew remarked thoughtfully. ‘Some would say, of course, that Annie was a witch.’

  Matthew whispered, ‘There were some that did. And so you understand why I have kept this quiet. I did not know myself if Annie was a witch. I do not know it now.’

  His son looked up at him and smiled. ‘I don’t believe in them,’ he answered simply.

  Matthew was taken aback. ‘You don’t believe in witchcraft, Hew? Is that your education? It’s a dangerous position.’

  ‘Aye, I am aware of it. I do not make the claim too loud. But the truth is I give thought to many things, and you may call it education if you will. I have not believed in witches since I was a child. Tell me, though, do you?’

  His father sighed. ‘I have seen them drowned and burned and strangled at the stake, and they have wrung my heart. I have heard them confess in fear for their families, hearing their children distracted by tortures. I have seen brave women hang, wise and skilled like Annie in the healing arts, because their neighbours cried them for a witch. And there were others, too, spiteful, twisted crones who wished their neighbours ill but scarcely had the wits to make them so. Whether they were witches or were not, I was powerless to defend them. I don’t know if witches exist, but I know that where they are suspected, good people, brave people, die.’

  ‘And so you could not trust me,’ Hew concluded quietly.

  ‘You forget we have not seen you since you were eighteen. Meg felt she did not know you. And she was half ashamed. We should have known you, Hew.’

  ‘What has happened since to change her mind?’

  ‘The matter’s this. You left her there with Nicholas. Hush, I don’t reproach you, it was unforeseen. But Nicholas relapsed. She found him racked with lockjaw, taut and jerking. And because she has the sickness, and is skilled in natural arts, she did her best to help him, and she gave him hemlock. She sent him to a sleep as deep as death.’

  ‘What then, she poisoned him!’

  Matthew shook his head. ‘She had medicines and she used them. The little that remained she took herself. The doctor found her faint from her exertions. He does not know about her sickness, but he understood at once what she had done to Nicholas. And so he is afraid.’

  ‘I know Giles. He’s a good man. And he will not think it witchcraft,’ Hew assured him. ‘He will understand.’

  ‘His fear is more pragmatic, that the patient will be given up for dead. I have seen it in the hills, where shepherds have told tales of sheep that grazed on hemlock, seeming dead and flayed, coming bleating back to life. But in a day or two your friend will wake. The hemlock, by the by, is growing in the garden by the carrot tops. It’s not unlike sweet cicely to look at. If you’ve a mind to make a pottage, have a care.’ Matthew forced a smile.

  ‘God love us and save us!’

  ‘Amen. But come now, a cup!’ He turned to the pot, where the posset was bubbling and crusted, and ladled it carefully into a bowl. ‘Sup slowly now, to ease your sleep. Here’s cinnamon wafers and nutmeg besides.’

  Reluctantly, Hew drank his share, sipping the spray through the spout of the pot. The mess of froth foamed sweet and hot. He swallowed gingerly, allowing the sweetness to swill to his bowel, warming the cup to his hand. Matthew neither drank nor turned to look at him, absorbed in dampening down the fire. Presently Hew spoke, his voice a little thickened by the brew, polite across the awkwardness. ‘A pretty thing.’

  ‘The silver cup? Your mother’s piece. She ay liked pretty things.’

  ‘Aye? I never saw a caudal pot so delicate. The channel here is so fine it scarcely allows for the sup of the whey.’

  ‘She never cared for custards much.’

  ‘The spout seems better purposed for the weaning of a child.’

  ‘Indeed? I believe it may have served that purpose once or twice.’

  ‘Or for the sick perhaps. For one who might not eat, the stream of liquid flowing here just so.’

  ‘I think it very like,’ the older man agreed. ‘You are decided then?’

  Hew shook his head. ‘To take the case? I see no other way. We all of us are drawn too deep in this. Besides, it is my fault.’

  ‘Have courage. Meg will bring him back to life. I believe in her, Hew.’ His face belied the lack of passion in his voice.

  ‘Aye, I think you do. But tell me this, how can she do it? She has not the strength to be taken back and forth. Now I must take up lodgings in the college. She cannot stay there, nor with Giles Locke.’

  ‘There is somewhere else, a place where she might stay. I’ve long been thinking of it, for she cannot live alone when I am gone. With her sickness I despair of a husband for her. Then consider this. A cousin of your mother living in the town has taken a young wife. She’s nervous and frail, now newly with child. Her man’s a merchant on th
e south street, often gone from home. The lassie frets and pines for want of gentle company. This man has offered Meg a place with them, if she will bring some comfort to his wife while he’s abroad. Indeed, he’s asked for her now several times. Our Meg’s a stubborn wench, and will not go. But now, as suits your present purpose, we are likely to persuade her. Once she’s there . . . I am an old man, Hew, we may convince her she will come home when the child is born and Nicholas is well. You and I knowing, it is not to be so.’

  ‘What do they want with her?’ Hew sounded sceptical. ‘Is she to be a serving girl until she has a seizure and they turn her out of doors?’

  Matthew did not meet his gaze. ‘They know about her affliction and are prepared to overlook it,’ he answered wearily. Your mother’s family have always been close. At heart Robin Flett is a good enough man. And his wife may be kind to Meg.’

  ‘Kind is not enough. She shall not be a servant while I live.’ But as Hew spoke he saw his father’s face. The old man’s eyes were bright with tears. ‘And yet it cannot hurt her for a while. We’ll speak of it tomorrow, when we both have slept.’

  ‘Aye, goodnight, my son.’ His father wiped his eye. ‘The fire begins to smoke. Take up the lamp. There’s little light enough upon the stair.’ He added quietly, ‘Nor yet below.’

  Matthew sat motionless, watching Hew go. Presently he rose, a little slow and stiff. He did not follow his son, but walked towards the windows shuttered from the night. He fumbled with the catch, unfastened it, and peered outside into the rasping dampness of the fog. The dawn brought neither light nor sound, the baffled seabirds mute as clouds, his farmlands unfamiliar, fused and indistinct. He drew the plaid a little closer round his shoulders, momentarily confused, as though uncertain of the place. The room was almost dark. He stood awhile, then stooped to light a candle, now a second, shying from the frankness of their glare. From pockets deep obscured within the darkness of his robes he drew a strand of beads, and kneeling down, he prayed for both his children in the gloom, whispered on and on until his eyes began to close.