‘I’ve followed him, sir. I’ve a list of aw his movements over the last week. You’re correct about his appetite… for women… he’s visited the houses of Maggie Lister and Jessie McDade.’
‘He’s a fornicator, Mr Johnston!’ thundered Grimston. ‘Those who dedicate their lives to lust must be punished, as it says in the Bible… This man cannot lead us. When we’ve enough evidence, we’ll confront him before the others. The association must know his true nature. Keep watching him for a few mair days. I’ve something to show you.’ He bent down and took a bundle from a sack on the floor. ‘I used it at Bothwell Brig. I shot a dragoon through the heart. It aims true.’
Johnston took the gun in his hands lovingly, weighing it carefully. He pictured himself firing at a Papist, the dull thud as the bullet entered the body. He saw himself killing the dominie, revenging himself for the years of abuse.
‘It’ll be yours when the time comes. You’ll vote with me, Mr Johnston?’
‘Of course, sir. I stand with the righteous.’
‘You’re a good fellow. Now be aff with you. Speak with the whores. Learn everything you can of the fornicator. Here’s something tae loosen their tongues.’ He handed him a few coins. ‘Then we’ll be rid of him.’
29
A Liberal Education
AS HE APPROACHED the decrepit two-storey building, Scougall wondered what he might have achieved if he had attended the College of Edinburgh. He did not have the privilege of a university education; rather, at the age of fourteen, he left Musselburgh grammar school to be apprenticed as a notary public. The profession of advocate might have been open to him and perhaps marriage to Elizabeth.
Passing through an arched passageway, he entered a large untidy courtyard, where an old servitor told him classes finished in five minutes. When the bell rang, students spilled out of doors on every side, screaming like the rabble he had been part of on the High Street, speeding out to hunt down victuals in tavern or booth. He noticed the lean figure of Robert Johnston approaching. In the light of day, he saw he was a youth of perhaps thirteen or fourteen with a face still covered in plooks.
‘To what do I owe this pleasure?’ Johnston asked.
Scougall was not well versed in the art of subterfuge, but remembered MacKenzie’s parting words. ‘Adopt the role of fanatic, Davie. You’re a believer in the cause of Presbytery. Play it well and we’ll learn much.’
‘Can we talk, Mr Johnston?’ He adopted a serious but friendly air.
‘We’re nae supposed to speak outside the club to avoid suspicion falling on us. There could be spies watching. Antichrist has eyes everywhere.’
‘I heard something is planned for tonight.’
‘You want some sport do you?’ Johnston’s face lit up. He looked around furtively and dropped his voice. ‘We’ll pay a visit tae a tenement in Gray’s Wynd where Patrick Brown bides, a suspected Papist. We’re tae smash his windows and piss on his door; nothing too much, not yet.’
‘A suspected Papist?’ Scougall did not like the idea of urinating in public.
‘He’s been seen in their company.’
‘Count me in, Mr Johnston. When are you meeting?’
‘Eight o’clock. You’ll hear the drum on the High Street.’
‘We must hound the Beast out of Scotland!’ said Scougall raising his fist as he repeated a few stock phrases on the lips of the rabble. ‘The odour of Antichrist must be expunged!’ He had no difficulty in expressing the views of a devout Presbyterian. He was only articulating his own deepest fears. As MacKenzie would have said, the emotions were unqualified, unrefracted through the lens of reason, a pure response to the fear of Satan. However, the act of playing a role distanced them from him. He saw them for what they were – fear, hatred, anger, resentment, blood-lust – all part of his makeup too.
‘We’ll gie the fucking Whore something tae think aboot,’ added Johnston. Scougall wanted to upbraid him for swearing, for using the words of the gutter, but he contained his disgust.
‘Are you the master of the mob, Mr Johnston?’ He knew the question would appeal to his vanity.
‘I pull the strings on the street. I ken aw the students and apprentices in the city. They’ll be rewarded when the time comes.’
‘When the time comes?’
‘When bishops are banished frae the realm and the church restored tae the glorious constitution of 1638. That’s reward enough for me. But the boys want drink money. I disperse funds provided by Craig.’
‘Where does he get it from?’ Johnston spoke more readily than he had expected. He was perhaps just a young fool, the plaything of others, like Alexander Stuart.
‘Where do you think it comes frae? The Earl himself!’
‘But he’s not declared.’
‘He hasnae made his position known in public, but he’s a supporter of the cause.’ Scougall saw that the world of politics was one of duplicity.
‘Was Thirlsmuir slain by them?’
‘The Papists feared such a devoted servant of the Covenant. His death was a warning to stop the struggle on the street and allow the Whore free reign. But this is the Land of Knox and Melville, valiant men of God who fought for the true kirk!’
‘Did they kill Black as well?’
‘I’m sure they did. They’ll keep killing. They’ll keep killing Protestants who stand against them. They’ll bring Irish troops intae Scotland as they did under Montrose. But we’ll vanquish them. The nation stands united against them as they did in the days of the Covenant. If we stand thegither there’s naething we cannae achieve.’
‘We’ll fight them together, Robert,’ Scougall added, but Johnston did not like being interrupted. He was a teller of tales not a listener.
‘Have you heard the Prince will soon be in London? If James Stewart flees, the government in Edinburgh will fall. Papists like Melfort will be put tae the sword.’ He pulled back his jacket to reveal a dirk hanging from his belt. ‘We’ll extirpate every last one.’
Scougall wondered why the boy felt such hatred, enjoying as he did, the benefits of a college education. He recalled MacKenzie’s words that men of violence rise during times of strife; those who kill without compunction, caring nothing for God’s laws, caring little for Presbytery or Bishop. Men who crave only power over others. Johnston was perhaps capable of killing Thirlsmuir or Black, after all. But he could not think of a reason why he would do so, unless told by another.
‘Be careful, Mr Scougall. Papist spies are everywhere. Some will tak money frae baith sides… I’m promised a pistol by Grimston. You’ll need a weapon when the revolution comes.’
Scougall was a poor swordsman and did not own a dirk or gun. He could swing an iron but not a rapier, although he did have a good eye with a pistol. Perhaps he would need one for protection.
‘What else can I do, Mr Johnston?’
‘Proclaim your opposition to Antichrist! And provide money. But don’t look sae worried. Our time comes. A glorious conflagration will consume this city. Out of the night we’ll rise. The Papist will be vanquished frae the realm!’
The boy’s eyes sparkled with fervour.
‘We’ll be victorious, Robert. Our time comes. It will be glorious, indeed. We’ll free our country from the oppressor,’ added Scougall.
He bid Johnston farewell and made his way to the Cowgate intending to drop in at St Magdalene’s Chapel. Inside, he found himself in a hive of activity rather than a place of peaceful meditation. For a few moments he stood admiring the vaulted ceiling, stained-glass windows and timber panelling. When he lowered his gaze he saw Quinn’s lithe figure coming towards him.
‘It’s Mr Scougall, is it not?’
‘Yes, sir. How are you feeling?’
‘I’m recovered, thank you. A brief malady, thank God. I’m restored to health. The news from London is good. My sister told me you visited the shop with the tall lawyer MacKenzie.’
‘He’s helping Stirling investigate the killings.’
‘A terrib
le business. I see Mr Craig wishes to talk to you. Drop into our shop sometime. I’ll provide you with a little perfume for your lady.’
‘It’s good to see you again,’ said Craig interrupting in a friendly manner.
‘Is there any news?’ asked Scougall nervously.
‘William will be in London soon. The King loses support across the country.’
‘You agreed to provide a list of Pittendean’s debts.’
‘Of course, my lord mentioned it, but I’d forgotten. There are so many other matters to attend. I’ll see that it’s done, although I’m very busy at the moment. It might be a day or so.’
‘I’ve something else to ask you… It’s a delicate matter.’
Craig beckoned Scougall into a quiet corner.
Scougall forced himself to say something. ‘It’s a difficult time to borrow. I’m told a man might obtain funds from Lammington without security.’
‘It’s a dangerous time to extend credit, Mr Scougall. But there are always ways, if you’re willing to pay a high enough price. Are you in need of funds? I could have a word with him.’
‘I’ve heard he uses brutal means to secure repayment.’
‘He’ll use any means to get his money back if it’s not redeemed. I don’t believe violence is one of them. He’s a merchant like any other. He likes to lend to those who are likely to repay.’
‘Did Thirlsmuir pay his debts on time?’ Scougall was surprised by his own forwardness.
Craig looked taken aback by the question. ‘Are you suggesting he was killed for not paying a debt to Lammington? That’s ridiculous, sir.’
Scougall could not believe his luck. He had found out that Lammington was Thirlsmuir’s debtor.
‘It’s just what I’ve heard, idol gossip I’m sure. I’m looking for a small sum to tide me over the winter. I’m owed money by a few clients who are late in settling their accounts. I only need about a hundred pounds Scots.’
‘I’ll mention it to him. It should not be a problem for a… loyal servant of the cause.’ Craig’s face broke into a knowing smile.
Scougall nodded appreciatively and was on the point of excusing himself when Craig moved closer. ‘You must make sure you’re on the right side, Mr Scougall. If you were thought to be on the wrong one, you’d be punished.’
The colour drained from Scougall’s face.
‘I’m sure you would not be disloyal to the association. We know about your connections to Stirling and MacKenzie. Sometimes it’s necessary to prove your loyalty.’
Scougall nodded vacantly.
‘You’re known to Rosehaugh?’
He nodded again.
‘Rosehaugh is a defiler of the Godly who has tortured dozens of Presbyterians. It would be nae loss tae the nation if he was dispatched, if he was… struck down, perhaps in his office in the Tolbooth – a blow to the back of the head. It would be easy. His demise would be looked on favourably by the association, by the whole movement, by everyone who holds the cause of Presbytery dear. It would prove beyond doubt your loyalty. Think upon it, Mr Scougall.’
Scougall had no time to say that it was against the Lord’s Commandment to kill, as Craig moved on, whispering as he passed: ‘Think about, it. That’s all. The time will come, Mr Scougall. You must choose the right path.’
30
Sanctuary at Holyrood
AS THEY WANDERED up the High Street in the gloaming, Scougall told MacKenzie what he had learned from Johnston and the request made by Craig.
‘We’re making progress at last, Davie.We know that Johnston is Grimston’s creature and that Craig and Pittendean are knaves of the first rank. I doubt if we’ll receive a list of the debts.’
MacKenzie stopped in his tracks and thought for a few moments. ‘We must take the initiative ourselves. After breakfast tomorrow, search through the Books of Council and Session, beginning with the most recent volume and working backwards. Find all the transactions involving Pittendean and keep an eye out for anything connected with the association.’
Scougall agreed to undertake the task, although it would be a laborious slog through hundreds of pages. He would have to make an early start. Morrison had decided to hold a meeting to raise money from investors in the afternoon. ‘The capital raising is tomorrow afternoon in the Royal Coffee House. You would be very welcome, as would any of your acquaintances.’
‘I look forward to hearing the business case.’
Scougall was pleased to hear he would come. ‘Is there any word of the boy, sir?’
‘He seems to have melted into thin air. Stirling tells me his mother is Bessie Troon. She’s not seen him for a week. I fear he may be at the bottom of the Nor Loch. I’ve asked to have all the association watched, but the guards are needed to maintain public order. More trouble’s expected on the street. I’d like the lodgings of all the suspects searched, but Stirling says it’s not possible for political reasons. We’ll have to wait and see what happens.’
A crowd was gathered in the Lawn Market beside the Weighing House at the top of the High Street. Scougall was relieved to see it was not Johnston’s rabble. Laughter and applause rose from the throng rather than abuse. A small wooden stage had been constructed on the street.
‘Is it not time Edinburgh had a theatre, if only a temporary one,’ smiled MacKenzie. ‘One of the great pleasures in life is to be distracted by a play. Sarre’s players have been given a licence by the Privy Council to perform for the people.’
Scougall viewed the theatre as frivolous and ungodly entertainment. ‘Such a festival of dolts will stain the good name of this town!’
‘We can’t hark back to the days of Cromwell when all theatres were closed. It would broaden your mind to observe a play, Davie.’
Scougall was annoyed by the suggestion that his mind was narrow and might benefit from watching a gaggle of fools impersonating others. If you wanted drama, you could do a lot worse than listening to a sermon; the best preachers knew how to hold a crowd’s attention. ‘There’s enough drama in the Bible,’ he replied.
MacKenzie was already walking towards the stage. Scougall could make nothing of it. There were a host of characters: a king and queen, soldier, fool, harlequin, but what it was all about, he could not work out. Mighty speeches were made, songs sung, jokes told. The bows of the actors and the crowd’s applause seemed endless. When it was over, they passed to The Periwig where they sat at their usual table.
MacKenzie said nothing until he had finished his wine. ‘We’ve one more meeting tonight, Davie. I’ve arranged to see Ruairidh in the Palace. I want you to accompany me.’
Scougall was looking forward to bed and had no desire to see him again. ‘It’s surely not my place, sir.’
‘I want you there, as a witness.’ MacKenzie hoped Scougall would be a restraining influence on him. He was not sure that he could control himself.
The High Street was still busy despite the late hour; groups of artisans and students were loitering at every corner, while homeless beggars roamed aimlessly searching for a morsel to eat. They walked the mile from the Castle to Holyrood House in silence; MacKenzie deep in thought.
Holyrood Palace was at the foot of the High Street. Two tall towers dominated its façade on each side, with classical columns enclosing a large door. MacKenzie reflected that it was one of the principal residences of Scottish kings, although diminished since James the Sixth inherited the English Crown in 1603 and took up permanent residence in the south. Many lamented that Scotland no longer had a court. The nobles had fled south, adopted English manners and left Edinburgh to the lairds and lawyers.
Scougall viewed Holyrood as an enclave of Popery where the followers of Antichrist took refuge. The Abbey Church, an ancient structure at the side of the Palace, was converted into a Chapel Royal. It was where the Order of the Thistle convened, a Jesuit school was established and the Mass celebrated. The whole place was a den of iniquity, a cancer in the heart of the kingdom where the Devil feasted on the soul of Scotland.
The guards at the gates had been warned to expect them. Inside the Chapel, Scougall observed the ornate furnishings and elaborate carvings with disgust.
‘Fine craftsmanship, indeed,’ said MacKenzie. ‘Grinling Gibbons is an artist of the first rank.’
Scougall said nothing, his puritanical nature revolting against the exuberant scupltures.
At the far end a priest was conducting a service. Scougall could hardly believe that he was witnessing the Mass. It was still a capital offence according to the statute book of Scotland! The Papists called it transubstantiation, the blasphemous belief that the bread and wine were literally transformed into the body and blood of Christ.
When the ceremony was over, the priest disappeared into the shadows and another figure rose from the pews beside him. He turned and walked towards MacKenzie and Scougall. It was Ruairidh MacKenzie. When he reached them, MacKenzie did not remove his hat, a grave insult to a member of the aristocracy.
‘I’m sorry. I should have told you everything. I must assure you…’ Ruairidh mumbled.
Scougall was not prepared for the violence of MacKenzie’s outburst: ‘You’ve treated my daughter disgracefully. I ought to run you through with my sword. There’ll be no marriage now!’
‘I’ve suffered much… for my religion,’ Ruairidh continued. ‘I love her… as I believe she loves me. When this is over, we can, maybe…’
‘You’ve lied to me. You’ve lied to Elizabeth. We’ll never trust you again.’
‘I beg your forgiveness. I had to follow my… conscience. My heart told me I did right. The old faith pleases me in a way the Protestant one never did. I’ll do anything to keep Elizabeth’s hand.’
‘You would disclaim your religion?’
‘I could not.’
‘Then the marriage will not take place!’
‘I beg your forgiveness.’
MacKenzie knew he would have to play a long game. Elizabeth was devoted to the rogue. If the marriage was delayed, the life of a soldier was unpredictable. He might be slain on a foreign battlefield.
Pilgrim of Slaughter Page 15
