‘Not so very,’ he returned, smiling. ‘I shall deduct the sum from our payment to Mistress – or, I suppose, to Mr Kennedy. The Cluniacs are unparalleled tutors indeed.’
15
The apothecary trailed in their wake as they took a brisk walk back to the Oakshawside. He eyed the drab exterior with distaste, and his lip curved further downwards when he entered. Danforth led him through the back to where the patient was taking laboured, ragged breaths. His eyes were now open, but glazed and sightless. After a moment’s revulsion, the apothecary turned professional. Mistress Caldwell stood back from the bed. ‘Please, save him. His breath grows weak.’
Martin and Danforth stood back, irresolute, unsure of either the necessity or the propriety of their presence. Martin wore a hard, distrustful look, not taking his eyes from the apothecary. It was almost, thought Danforth, as though he expected the man to produce a dirk and put an end to the fellow himself. The apothecary instead put an ear to the rattling chest, then sniffed at the sour breath, pulling back as he did so. He touched the man’s eyelids, mumbling under his breath, then examined dirty hands and broken nails. After his examination he stood, turning to Danforth and Martin with a shake of the head. ‘I believe I can ease his chest, sirs, but it is no sure thing. This man will die.’
Mistress Caldwell let out a little croak. ‘A very thorough examination, Zachary,’ said Martin, the sarcasm heavy, ‘and it’s glad we are that we’ve brought you here to upset the lady and tell us what we might suspect for ourselves. Even an apothecary might learn to sometimes be gentle. This is the fellow’s wife.’
‘Oh,’ said Zachary, a blush rising in his cheeks. ‘I apologise, mistress.’
‘Do somethin’ for him, won’t you? He will no’ speak, he will no’ tell me where he’s been, nor of ... well, of our money.’ She gripped and released her faded skirts over and over. ‘Do somethin’ for him.’
‘I can spread a poultice on his chest,’ said the apothecary, removing his spectacles and wiping them on his robe, ‘if you will allow me to return with it. It may ease the phlegm and restore his speech, but I can go no further than that it may.’
Mistress Caldwell turned pleading eyes on them. Rolling his eyes, Danforth said, ‘go to, sir. We shall find payment for your labours.’ The apothecary nodded and, tightening his cloak around his neck, hurried out.
‘That man is no’ a physician, sirs,’ said Mistress Caldwell. ‘He might have physic will aid my husband, and yet be in error about his death.’ Martin cast his eyes to the ground.
‘I fear he spoke true,’ said Danforth, with as much gentleness as he could manage. ‘You husband is not like to live, I fear. Yet take comfort that he has returned to you. Better he died at peace by his wife, as a man should, than ...’
‘Yes,’ she said, tears prickling. ‘Better that. I thank you both, gentlemen, for fetchin’ the apothecary. It’s a rare kindness, I’d no’ have expected it. If he can smooth my husband’s passage that’ll be a comfort. And I shall take the price of his physic and his time from your bill.’
‘There is no need, mistress,’ said Danforth, earning a surprised and respectful look from Martin. ‘You have done us service by allowing us to lodge here without settling our bill in advance. Consider it our gratuity.’ She smiled– the first real smile they had seen on her unhappy, ageing face, and they left her.
They retreated to Danforth’s room. The ceiling had begun to leak, thin droplets of dirty water falling onto the floor by the desk. When heavy rain fell during the night – as most nights it did – it became a frustrating stream, leeching into and between the loose floorboards. The room had become a cell – a meagre and mean prison no better than the one from which Brody had made his escape. It had even taken on an unwholesome smell of its own, of dampness and mossy thatch. As though reading his mind, Martin spoke.
‘Jesus, what a dank place, better fit for a prison than a gentleman’s lodging.’
‘In truth, I was thinking the same, Mr Martin. I am beginning to feel as though we have been forced into exile in this burgh, or rather cast adrift here, the rain forming an unforgiving sea around us, as Scylla and Charybdis stopped sailors crossing out of the Straits of Messina.’
‘Now that one I know, sir. The sailors could not avoid one danger without coming close to another, to be either smashed to pieces or sucked below the raging waters. What an uncanny tale.’
Danforth nodded, a little put out that Martin had understood his reference and gone beyond it. Since he had begun softening – a little – to the younger man, he had preferred to see their relationship as one of master and student, of the wise elder in comfortable superiority over the ignorant and callow youth. All relationships must follow some model, and that one pleased him best. It would not do at all if Martin started matching him in wit. He would have to reach more deeply into his store of classics.
‘I do wonder what’s happening in the world, the real world’ continued Martin. ‘We have heard nothing of the Cardinal – or perhaps it is that Prior Walker has sent us nothing of him.’
‘He is a man of the Church. He would not keep knowledge from us.’
‘You needn’t pretend you have any greater liking for him than I. Indeed, I think you like dislike him even more, to be honest. You just forbear to show it.’
‘As a man I find him sleekit and cowardly, I shall admit. But the office is greater than the man, and it is the office which I commend.’
‘Very good, sir, yet very English. In England they teach you a love of institutions, no matter who provides their face. In Scotland we are loyal to men for their natures and deeds.’
‘Hold your peace. I am loyal to the Cardinal and King James. When the King of England became corrupted he lost my loyalty, and so did his crown and kingdom. How does that for your notion?’ Martin shrugged. ‘There, you see?’ he continued, glad that he had scored a point. ‘We are not all so easily understood. There are neither Scotsmen nor Englishmen any longer, but only heretics and those knit together in the true faith.’
‘The faith is important to you, sir.’
‘As it should be to all good men,’ said Danforth, unsure if it was a question. His faith, he had come to believe, had provided him with a new family, a new father, in a foreign land.
‘That is so. And do you find that Scotsmen agree with you? About there being neither English nor Scots, I mean.’
‘Yes. Although I confess that English birth can weigh heavily when that madman Henry waxes bellicose. Still, those who see the real troubles that infect this island see as I do.’
‘Yet you might on occasion remove the scales from your eyes, and see that not everything’s unity and kinship, not even in a realm that acknowledges the authority of the Pope. Even within the Roman Church there are wicked souls, sheltering behind vestments and cowls. There are priests who make free with harlots, monks who turn their gaze on boys, and nuns who live openly with the brothers of their orders too.’
‘And God sees and judges these misdemeanours, and lets his judgements be known through the Holy Father. Pope Paul is a wise man, as stout in his hatred of corruption as in his curbing of the Lutherans. Any more of your blasphemy and I shall think you favour the Reformist creatures and their complaints.’
‘No, sir. Not I. I understand the world well enough.’
‘Is that so, young Martin?’
‘Yes. It is like this. Suppose that a man has a grievance and wishes redress from the king. Or suppose,’ he said, cocking a thin, black eyebrow, ‘that he craves a pardon for some imagined transgression. Does he march into his Grace’s inner chamber and receive an immediate audience? No, sir. Learned and noble men who have earned the privilege of the king’s ear must intercede for him. So it is in matters spiritual. We may offer prayers to God and pay Him homage, but He answers our pleas and our petitions through His appointed and anointed. Such men must exist, yet I am not so blind to think that they are all without blemish nor even that they all incline to virtue.’
‘Enough of thi
s, Mr Martin. I am too weary for theology. You make free with my bed, sir.’
Martin had settled himself on the flat mattress, leaving Danforth to perch on the desk. He stretched out, luxuriating. ‘I find my mind turns more quickly when I’m at rest.’
‘I am relieved to find it turns at all. On what wheel does it spin?’
‘I’m thinking of the other matter, if you must know. God might have driven us here and left us wrecked to bring justice to that poor, dead lassie.’
‘Why,’ asked Danforth, interested, ‘do you tilt towards her so?’
‘To be honest, sir, the case of a lost young girl touches me near. I wasn’t in Scotland when my sister died – Christian, I told you about her. Only eighteen she was, when she was taken from my mother. From all of us.’ His brow wrinkled.
‘How did she die, sir?’ Martin only threw back his head. ‘Forgive me, Mr Martin. It is not my business.’
‘Some malady, some illness, ou quelque chose comme ça ... I wasn’t present. A damned physician has her blood on his hands, or so I heard tell. Bastard butcher.’
‘Let it lie. I should not have asked. You have never pressed me on my history, and it were wrong of me to pry into yours. But this Brody girl – something troubles me about it all. I would have answers. But we do not know this burgh. We can only wait on Brody being captured alive. There is one matter on which I would press him. But I suspect that we will not have it from him.’
Before Martin could speak, he and Danforth were interrupted by the bang of the front door. In the private quarters they found the apothecary, returned with his tools. He rolled up his sleeves, gently unbuttoned the oblivious Kennedy’s fine, stained doublet and shirt, and began to rub a brown, gritty ointment into the coarse black hair. Instantly a sour, acidic smell filled the room. After a few seconds the prone figure began thrashing, and Danforth crossed himself. ‘Mistress, have you any ropes to bind him to the bed?’ asked Zachary.
‘Aye – those that keep the roof in place.’
‘There is little wind. The roof shall survive. I shall wind the sheet around his chest.’ She shuffled off to loosen the ropes from the stones in the front room, whilst the apothecary began to tighten the sheet around the unfortunate Kennedy’s body.
‘You’ve no more savage means, then?’ asked Martin, a caustic edge to his voice. The apothecary ignored him and continued heaving and handling his patient.
‘There,’ he said finally, rocking back on his heels to admire his handiwork. ‘His breathing shall soon ease, I hope. Though I would bleed him to be sure.’
‘Bleeding will kill him,’ said Martin, whilst Danforth simply screwed his eyes closed. The thought of bleeding sickened him. Even the memories of his own regular spring bleedings made his head light. The smell of the lotion had invaded the back of his throat, catching and making him want to cough and wretch. His head began to swim, the room momentarily tilting. ‘He has not the strength for it,’ said Martin. The apothecary turned a shrewd, affronted eye on him.
‘Very well, sir. I did not think you a physician, but rather a lord’s man or the king’s.’
‘We are the Cardinal’s men, as I thought the whole burgh would be aware.’
‘Is that so? The fellow shall not be bled, then. Though I shall not answer for it if he expires the quicker,’ he said. ‘Now, gentlemen, I must turn to the matter of my payment.’
Martin dug in his purse for coins and threw the apothecary’s money to the floor, hissing, ‘there, the cost of a man’s breath.’ Zachary seemed not to mind, bending over and gently scooping up his pay.
‘Very good, sir – I thank you, as I’m sure will this lady.’ Caldwell was standing by the bed, a rope in her hands and eyes fixed on her husband, humming. Danforth noted the neglected ribbons she had recently worn were lying on the room’s trestle. Sad little things, he thought, designed to bring a little show and gaiety, now forgotten.
‘We shall see you out,’ he said to the apothecary. He was eager to be away from the foul smells of what had become a sickroom, made more putrid still by the strange medicine.
They watched the apothecary scurry down the High Street, and for a few moments Danforth and Martin stood irresolute in the doorway. Returning into the house of sickness was deplorable, and there was no reason to visit the Abbey. It might be time, thought Danforth, to seek news of the roads and return to Glasgow, where they might be closer to war news and certainly close to news of the Archbishop’s investigation. ‘I begin to suspect this matter may prove an Achilleid, Mr Martin, no sure conclusion to it.’
He was starting to enjoy the questioning look on Martin’s face when he heard a commotion further down the High Street. A chorus of shouting voices carried through a light rain. ‘What is it? What news?’ called Martin to no one in particular.
They stepped out of the doorway and into the street. A woman and child in plaid shawls were skidding along through the muck a little way down. ‘You, woman, what is the to-do?’ shouted Danforth.
‘The battle, sir! The battle’s fought and lost, we’re all lost, we are beaten! The war’s over. We lost! King Henry’s men are coming to put us all to sword and flame!’
16
The market cross had become a warzone. Men and women jostled, screaming and shouting, the women with their arms around each other’s waists and heads resting on shoulders. Danforth’s heart fluttered. Perhaps the woman had been mistaken – perhaps the furore was some smaller matter. He and Martin elbowed their way into the crowd.
‘The king’s deid!’ was one old man’s opinion. ‘Deid an’ they’re no tellin’ us. That’s the news we’re no’ gettin’. A’ for glory, these daft wars, and hurt for us.’ Martin asked him where he had heard this news, but the old man only shrugged. They moved on. Another group was cheering that the Scots had been victorious. How did they know? No one knew. Still another woman pronounced that the battle had yet to begin, and the rest were fools to listen to rumour. Where had she divined this? It was, she said, simply common sense. Danforth spied Grissell Clacher and Wilza Darroch conspiring, drawn back together by something bigger than their recent sparring.
It was not long before Danforth and Martin realised that there was no real news to be found in the market cross. Every item, every scrap or bruit purporting to know what was happening was untraceable. As in all crowds, a whispered word grew wings and flew about, being grabbed from the air, mangled, and then thrown onwards. Martin shook his head, inviting Danforth to abandon the search. It was worse to have mock news than to know nothing. Instantly the heart would soar and then sink. If only, thought Danforth, he could lie down somewhere and sleep, and then awaken and have it clear and correct. But he knew that no sleep would come.
They had already turned away from the market cross’s great central pillar when the door of the Tolbooth opened. The gruff Baillie Semple led the way, followed by Pattison. Logan the gaoler was nowhere to be seen. Semple marched towards the cross, his silence silencing the crowd. When he reached the pillar, he held something up. It was, Danforth realised, the burgh wakestaff – the obnoxious little stick used to beat on the doors of slugabeds. He struck the pillar with it three times, and the silence of the crowd deepened.
‘Citizens of Paisley,’ he called out. ‘This day word has come upon the Abbey, and thus come upon us all, that a great battle against the English heretics has yesterday been fought and lost in the border country to the south.’ There was a collective intake of breath, followed by some anguished groans. ‘Fear not, I command you. Our sovereign lord’s army has been defeated upon the field, yet his Grace is unharmed. The English have retreated southwards into their own lands with sundry captives, and plan no invasion. There is no danger to any man, woman or bairn. Any found reporting false rumour shall be punished most severely. The Prior bids us all offer our thanks to God for delivering his Grace the king from his enemies, and to pray that in defeat we shall prosper. Pray for the coming of our new princeling. Go about your business. There is no more.’
/> Danforth, his throat a desert, turned to Martin. The younger man’s eyes were closed, his lips moving in silent prayer. ‘We must get away from this place, find the Cardinal, find better news,’ croaked Danforth.
‘Leave Paisley? To what end, sir?’
‘To what end? We have been sitting musing upon the moon here whilst this thing has happened. I cannot ... I ... we must find his Grace.’
‘By now the Cardinal will have received notice of our presence here. If he writes, it’ll be to here. What good to turn out upon the road in a frenzy, not knowing where he might be or at what labour? We must await our summons arriving at the Abbey, not miss it upon the highway.’
Danforth looked around, despising Paisley, feeling trapped. His gaze fixed upon the Tolbooth, just as the door closed on the baillies. ‘Come.’ Martin followed him towards it.
Semple stood twirling the wakestaff in his hand. He looked up at the intruders. Pattison, seated, leaned forward, squinting, his squashed-fruit face bored. ‘Good morning, gentlemen,’ began Danforth. ‘This foul news, I can scarcely believe it. Yet the king is well?’
‘You needn’t think we owe you more than we have given our people,’ said Semple.
‘Peace, Mr Semple,’ said Pattison. ‘There are Cardinal’s men, mind. Men of esteem and credit. Or they were.’
‘We’re his Grace’s servants still,’ said Martin.
‘You misunderstand me. Though it’s being kept yet from the ears of the general rabble, word from the south is that the king is greatly troubled in his mind by the defeat. Down on the border, they fought, marsh country near the Levin. Not an Englishman was harmed, as is said, but good Scots were drowned in the marsh. Many men of good blood were captured. It tends towards our realm’s humiliation. They say the king blames your master as the chief man responsible for this bootless war. It was to be a raid! Just a raid, and then this!’
Danforth and Martin looked at one another. Danforth felt his anger rise. It was a good antidote to shock. ‘You might have a care, sir. Your own house is in disorder. A man you call a murderer escaped from your Tolbooth, and now somewhere abroad? You might have a care indeed. You might be murdered in your bed next, English invasion or no.’ He turned on his heel and left.
Fire & Faith Page 16
