by Pat McIntosh
‘A bed-sheet?’ said Kate in surprise. ‘Over his clothes?’
‘No.’ Ysonde reflected briefly on this. ‘On his head.’
The journeyman who had admitted them earlier appeared at the kitchen door and crossed the chamber to his master, who heard what he had to say and clapped his hands for silence.
‘The players are here, neighbours,’ he announced. ‘If we make oursels ready, they’ll be up any time to entertain us.’
Two sorts of bustle began at his words, the women shifting chairs and arranging themselves with Babb’s help, the men drifting reluctantly into the main chamber from the window space. Morison’s household clattered in from the kitchen and retired to a corner, the grizzled steward Andy glaring sternly at the younger maidservants, who had a tendency to giggle. Gil watched all in some amusement, having found himself a place against the wall.
‘Och, it’s only the old play,’ said one of the two girls Alys had pointed out. ‘What’s so wonderful?’
‘Guard your tongue, Nell,’ said the dyer’s wife briskly, and thrust a backstool at her daughter. ‘Here, set that for Meg, next Lady Kate, and come and get another.’
So that was Nell Wilkie, with the soft brown hair, a comely young woman but nowhere near as striking as her friend. Agnes was a plump little soul, with a head of gold curls, a pretty face, huge blue eyes, and a kissable mouth. A wise father would have had her married off before now, which probably meant that Maister Renfrew was not wise where his younger daughter was concerned. The cut and quality of her blue silk gown suggested the same.
‘There is Maister Renfrew’s new wife,’ commented Maistre Pierre in his ear. ‘Meg Mathieson. I am surprised she has come out. Do you suppose it is twins?’
‘No way to tell,’ said Gil, watching Agnes seat her burgeoning stepmother, place an assortment of cushions at her back and hand her a fan of swan’s feathers. ‘Could be a consort of four voices, by the size of her.’
His father-in-law guffawed, then straightened his face hastily as Maister Renfrew passed them, towing his younger son by the sleeve of his green brocade gown.
‘You’ll stand by your sister,’ he was saying, ‘and oversee her behaviour, and no argument from you.’
‘She’s none of my –’ began the young man, a handsome youth if he had not been at the spotty stage, and swallowed as his father turned to glare at him. ‘Aye, sir.’
Neither Agnes nor her stepmother seemed pleased to see their menfolk; Agnes greeted her brother with a sniff and a flounce of her blue silk skirts and the stepmother, not many years older, eyed her husband warily as if uncertain of his mood. He smiled kindly at her, which seemed to alarm her more, patted her shoulder and turned away to join Gil and Maistre Pierre, tucking himself in beside the mason’s wide furred gown.
‘I’ll just stand ower here,’ he said softly, ‘where Meg canny see me. She’s the sizey a house, you’d think she was carrying a football team, and it makes her carnaptious.’
It took perhaps a quarter-hour of stir and argument to get the company seated in a half-circle round the door which led to the kitchen stair. Mistress Hamilton was in a draught, Nancy Sproull the dyer’s wife could not see past Eleanor Renfrew’s headdress and Andrew Hamilton the younger, all of thirteen and very grown-up in dark brown broadcloth, had to be separated from a glass of Dutch spirits his parents had not seen him acquire. Gil dealt with that for Kate without alerting either parent, the other problems were solved, the two little girls settled at Kate’s feet, Nicol Renfrew was persuaded to move his backstool beside his wife’s, and the audience was declared ready.
Morison nodded to his steward, who signalled in turn to a journeyman standing ready by the door, and the man slipped out to the kitchen. A distant set of ill-tuned small-pipes struck up a discordant noise; feet sounded on the stairs, there were three loud knocks on the door, and it was flung wide.
‘Haud away rocks, haud away reels!’ began a stentorian voice, and Judas entered.
Gil knew two or three versions of the play, but had not seen this company perform before. The other actors filed in behind the piper, whose small-pipes were eventually silenced, and bowing to their audience launched into the traditional song about Hallowe’en while their Bessie wielded a broom inexpertly round the legs of stools and backstools. They carried garlands of coloured paper and withies; their costumes were the usual mix of old clothes and ingenuity, discarded gowns turned to the lining, card mitres for Judas and St Mungo painted and stuck with gold braid, the Bessie character with plaits of horsehair dangling from her vast linen headdress, a bedspread train pinned to her ample waist. The two champions wore real, rather battered armour, though their swords were of wood, and one had his face blacked with soot. Gil had seen both combatants in the armourer’s workshop. Which of them was Agnes’s fancy? he wondered.
Judas was declaiming his next speech now, announcing the coming fight. His acting style was striking, ornamented with huge dramatic gestures which bore no relation to the words he was using, so far as those could be understood; the accent used by Lanarkshire folk on a stage had always puzzled Gil.
The young apothecary from the Tolbooth was indeed playing the doctor in an imposing tall hat of black paper. He was a stocky fellow, buttoned into a too-long gown tucked up over a shabby belt of scarlet leather, a vast scrip hanging at his side. He had glanced once at Agnes Renfrew, conspicuous in her blue silk, then stood silent against the wall while all were introduced.
‘If you don’t believe the word I say,’ Judas ended, with sudden clarity, ‘call for Alexander of Macedon, and he’ll show the way! Alexander! Alexander! Alexander!’
‘I know Alexander,’ announced Ysonde. ‘Our Da’s got a poetry book about him.’
Her sister shushed her, but Judas bowed to her, and declared, ‘Aye, bonnie young lady, and here he comes the now!’
The black-faced champion came forward into the acting space, saluted the company with his sword, mumbled Alexander’s speech about how he had conquered the world except for Scotland, and summoned Galossian as the champion of all Scotland to come forth and fight him. As the champion’s name was called the requisite three times, Gil found Maistre Pierre’s elbow in his ribs, drawing his attention to Maister Renfrew on the mason’s other side.
One glance, and Gil shared his father-in-law’s concern. The apothecary’s face was engorged with apparent rage, a vein throbbing wildly in his temple under the silk bonnet whose crimson matched his brow and cheeks, his bulging eyes fixed on Agnes, who in turn was gazing adoringly at the young man in the buttoned gown. Gil was just in time to see her brother nudge her, and then pinch her arm viciously. A commotion of her skirts suggested she had kicked him in return.
‘Frankie, you should sit down,’ suggested Maistre Pierre quietly, putting his hand on the apothecary’s arm. Renfrew started at the touch, and looked round, gasping for breath. On the other side of the room Augie Morison had noticed and was watching anxiously.
‘Will I find you a seat?’ Gil asked, while Galossian detailed his defence of Scotland. The man could speak well, but the tale seemed to involve more giants and other heroes than other versions. Renfrew shook his head, but reeled as he did so, and Gil nodded to Morison, slipped quietly past the apothecary and fetched one of the green leather backstools from the nearer window space. Once persuaded to sit down, Renfrew shut his eyes for a moment, then reached for his purse, opened it clumsily and fumbled within for a small flask of painted pottery, which he unstopped and tipped to his mouth. Whatever it contained, its effect was rapid; the man’s breathing settled, his colour began to improve. The people nearest had turned to look, but the players were reaching the exchange of insults between the two champions, and their distraction was brief. Morison, watching carefully, relaxed and sat back.
‘I’m well,’ said Renfrew irritably, waving his free hand at them. ‘Leave me be, I’m well.’
‘I stay with him,’ said Maistre Pierre quietly. Gil nodded, and returned to his place; across the int
ervening landscape of black silk French or Flemish hoods his sister caught his eye, but he shook his head. Beyond her Alys smiled at him, and turned her attention to the play, where to the chil-dren’s delight the champion of Scotland, describing his armour, had just reached the immortal line:
‘My arse is made of rumpel-bone! I’ll slay you in the field!’
St Mungo handed his garland to the Bessie and stepped forward, straightening his mitre. ‘Here are two warriors going to fight,’ he intoned, ‘who never fought before. Galossian bids you cheer him on, or he’ll be slain in all his gore. A-a-amen.’
The champions bowed formally to one another and to Kate as the lady of the house. Then, apparently taking his opponent by surprise, Galossian swung on his heel, bowed and performed a crashing salute of sword on buckler, his eyes fixed on Agnes Renfrew. Agnes went scarlet; several of the older ladies nodded with sentimental approval, but Maister Renfrew’s colour rose again and by the wall the young apothecary in his buttoned gown looked grim.
‘Lay on, lay on!’ ordered Alexander rather desperately. ‘I’ll rug you down in inches in less than half an hour!’
‘He said that before,’ observed Ysonde.
Galossian turned, took up an obviously rehearsed position, and the fight began. Gil, watching critically, felt it had been carefully practised, and amounted to a display. It was certainly very impressive, with much shouting, stamping, and crashing of the wooden swords on the leather-covered bucklers, and ranged right across the chamber and back again. The players cheered both warriors impartially, and when St Mungo encouraged them again the audience joined in. The two little girls squeaked and shrieked with excitement, young Andrew Hamilton forgot his sulks and jumped up and down, and at length, with a mighty blow which only just missed his helm, Alexander was struck down. He fell his length, and Galossian raised his sword in response to the audience’s cheers, then fell on top of his enemy.
‘Why’s he dead?’ Ysonde asked. ‘He winned!’
Nicol Renfrew produced that high-pitched laugh. St Mungo stepped forward again, and declared the champion slain, while the Bessie attempted to sweep both corpses off the stage.
‘A doctor!’ exclaimed Judas. ‘A doctor for Poor Jack!’ The entire company called for a doctor, in a deep mutter which made Kate’s older stepdaughter scramble on to her knee, shivering. ‘Ten merks for a doctor!’ said Judas.
The mutter changed to a a strange, hissing, grumbling, Here-he-is-here-he-is-here-he-is, at which Gil felt the back of his neck crawl, and Wynliane whimpered and buried her head in Kate’s sleeve. The young apothecary stepped away from the wall, and marched forward importantly, elbows akimbo.
‘Here comes I, a doctor, as good a doctor as Scotland ever bred.’
Kate was coaxing the little girls to look up and watch the funny man. The dialogue continued, much hindered by the Bessie, with the old, old jokes localized for Glasgow (Where have you travelled? Three times round the Indies and the Dow Hill, and twice across Glasgow Brig) and the long recital of what this doctor claimed to cure (The itch, the stitch, the maligrumphs, the lep, the pip, the blaen, the merls, the nerels, the blaes, the spaes and the burning pintle.) The women laughed at that, the men ignored the joke, Judas and the doctor bargained at length over his fee while the two slain champions lay getting their breath back, and finally the doctor opened his scrip, announcing loudly:
‘I’ve a wee bottle here that hangs by my side, will raise a man that’s been seven year in the grave.’
He held up a little flask of painted pottery, very like the one Maister Renfrew had taken from his own purse, paused for a fraction of a moment, and pointed to it with the other hand.
‘Seven year?’ repeated Judas. ‘What’s in it?’
‘Twelve herbs for the twelve apostles,’ began the doctor, ‘and three for the Blessed Trinity –’
Gil looked round the room. Most of the audience was engrossed, laughing at the by-play between Judas and the Bessie, who had clearly worked together before. Grace Gordon sat by her husband, elegant and modest, hands folded in her lap, watching the doctor intently, critically. Agnes Renfrew was also gazing at the doctor, her father and brother were both glowering at her again, Andrew Hamilton the elder had fallen asleep, Nancy Sproull was looking thoughtfully at Renfrew’s wife.
‘Two drops to Jack’s toes and one drop to Jack’s nose,’ pronounced the doctor. He drew the stopper with a flourish, frowned at the little flask, and bent to apply the treatment. Judas and the Bessie stepped silently backwards while, beside the tight-lipped Maister Renfrew, Maistre Pierre wondered audibly why the hero had changed his name. ‘Rise up, Jack, and sing us a song!’
‘I canny,’ protested the recumbent Jack.
‘Why no?’
‘I’ve a hole in my back would hold a sheep’s heid!’
‘We’ll ha to repeat the treatment.’ The doctor bent with another flourish. ‘Three drops to your beak and two to your bum. Rise up, Jack.’
Jack scrambled up, grinning under his helm, rubbed at his mouth and then raised both arms in a champion’s salute when the audience applauded. Alexander got to his feet, St Mungo came forward again, and the actors all launched into the final part of the play, a mix of traditional songs about Hallowe’en and improvised compliments to the company present. While they sang Jack rubbed occasionally at his mouth, and cast languishing glances at Agnes Renfrew, who studiously ignored him while her father glared at her and the piper went round with a green brocade purse decked with ribbons, shaking it hopefully at the audience.
‘What, have we to pay for them to finish?’ demanded Nicol Renfrew, and laughed again. His wife patted his arm, and drew up her dark silk skirts to find the purse hanging between gown and kirtle; around her the other women were doing the same, and the men were reluctantly fishing at belts or in sleeves. By the time the piper reached Gil his purse was well filled and jingling. Gil added his contribution and a word of praise, and the man grinned and moved on.
The actors were still working through the Hallowe’en songs. Alexander had caught his breath, and was singing lustily, but Jack was breathing hard. What for fighting and blood he bled, Greysteil was never so hard be-sted, Gil thought. It occurred to him that the player was becoming redder in the face rather than recovering a normal colour. The doctor, next in line, threw the champion an anxious look, spoke to him under cover of the singing. Jack shook his head, and then reeled, staggered, caught at Judas’s sleeve and went down on his knees, dragging the other man’s reversed gown off his shoulders as he fell.
‘Rise up, Jack!’ hissed Judas, hitching up his gown. One or two people laughed doubtfully, but Jack went on down, sprawling on the polished wooden planks of the floor. Judas bent to lift him, but could not get him to his feet; the other players sang on with determination as the fallen man was dragged aside. Gil, getting a closer view of the red face and rapid breathing, came to a swift conclusion. Whatever ailed him, the man was badly stricken. The children should not see this.
He looked across the chamber to find the servants, and caught the eye of the nurse Nan. Jack’s feet shuddered in the beginnings of a convulsion, Judas exclaimed in alarm, and before anyone else moved Gil picked his way through the audience, lifted Ysonde from her post at Kate’s feet, grasped Wynliane’s wrist and drew her after him. Nan met him at the door to the upper stairs as the exclamations began.
‘Let me go!’ said Ysonde, trying to squirm free. ‘Want to see the end!’
‘It’s ended,’ said Gil. ‘There’s no more play. Go with Nan, poppets.’
Nan, her black brows startling in a face pinched with sudden alarm, nodded thanks to him and gathered the indignant children to her.
‘Come, we’ll go up and make the baby’s bath ready,’ she prompted. ‘Maister Gil’s right, the play’s ended.’
Gil stood at the door until they vanished up the stairs, then turned to look at the scene in the hall. His sister was staring at him, her hands clenched on the rim of the cradle, Alys had risen in
her place, all the apothecaries in the room had converged on the fallen mummer, and the rest of the audience was still gaping, trying to work out what had happened. His eye fell on Grace Gordon, sitting tense and pale beside her husband, gaze fixed on the man’s quivering feet.
‘Gil!’ said Kate sharply. ‘What’s happened to the man?’
‘Is it poison, do you think?’ said Maistre Pierre beside him.
‘I fear so. Assuming he hasn’t taken an apoplexy,’ Gil qualified, ‘or dropped with the plague.’
‘Plague?’ repeated the woman nearest him in sudden alarm. Eleanor Renfrew, he noted, annoyed with himself for using the word aloud. ‘Is it – is that –?’
‘No, no,’ said Maistre Pierre soothingly, ‘your father will tell us in a moment, mistress. I am sure there is nothing for us to worry about.’
‘Get the armour off him,’ recommended Maister Wilkie from his post near the window. ‘It’s likely stopping him breathing.’
‘What’s best to do for him, maisters? Should we carry him to a bed?’ asked Morison, on the margin of the group kneeling round the mummer. They ignored this; they were consulting in tones of slightly forced civility, while Judas and the other players stared at them and Anthony Bothwell, still clutching the bright pottery flask, said incredulously:
‘What’s come to him? His breath was short – is it the armour right enough?’
‘The heart is very slow,’ pronounced James Syme, one hand at the pulse in the mummer’s throat, ‘and there is a great excess of choler, judging by the colour of his skin.’
‘The breathing is getting more rapid,’ observed Wat Forrest gravely, ‘and shallower.’ His brother nodded, practised fingers on the stricken man’s wrist.
‘He’s been eating almonds, you can smell them,’ contributed Robert Renfrew. ‘That’s warm and moist. It’s led to a sudden imbalance, maybe –’
