Hue and Cry (10 page)

Meg had found another butcher, who employed a child to whisk away the flies. Satisfied, she made her choice, and the fleshmonger struck a great slab with his cleaver, sheer through the bone. He made the meat into a parcel of white linen, scented with the sweet metallic taint of blood. Meg handed it to Hew.

‘I feel a little faint,’ she murmured. ‘It’s the noise and dust.’

The beef had begun to seep through its bandages. Hew pulled a face. He wanted to escape the stench, the sweet foul stew of
grease and blood, the drum and cry of hawkers and the bleating of the crowd.

‘In truth, the stink is overpowering. But we are outside Strachan’s house. His shop is cool and quiet. Let’s go in.’ Taking Meg’s arm, he pushed open the door.

With a cry of alarm, Tom Begbie emerged. ‘We’re closed, sir. That door should be locked.’

Hew stared at him curiously. ‘Is your master not here?’

‘No, sir, at church.’

‘On market day? How singular,’ Hew commented. ‘Then may we sit and rest awhile? My sister’s feeling faint. We need not trouble you.’

‘She mustn’t, no, she can’t. My master wouldn’t like it, sir. We’re closed.’ There was a note of desperation in Tom’s voice. ‘And I was meant to lock the door, and if he knew I had not locked the door … twas only that I hoped that she might come . . .’ The voice had trailed away. Without another word, he slammed the door and shot the bolt.

‘How strange.’ Hew glanced at Meg. ‘You look quite pale. Let’s try next door. Now here we have a souter.’ Suddenly, he grinned. ‘And I feel I need some shoes.’

The shoemaker sat in the light of the door, stitching a boot from a pile of bright hides. He looked up and smiled, watching Hew finger the shoes on the counter, plain, laced and buckled, blue-black and grey. One pair was fashioned of silk, outlandishly coloured and stiffly embroidered, too fine for the mire and the stew of the streets.

‘You’ll not find finer work than that, sir. Was it something for the court that you required?’

Hew had begun to regret the modish French cut of his clothes. He would not repeat the error of his horse.

‘I’m looking for a pair of boots – no beads; perhaps a fringe. Something stout and plain enough,’ he lifted up the hem of his cloak and sniffed at it fastidiously, ‘to weather the pollution of the town. But my sister’s feeling faint. It’s come over rather warm, I think.’

‘There’s a steuch from the sea doesn’t help. Ellie, a stool for the lass! Fetch her some ale! I’ll measure you up while she rests.’ The shoemaker rose from his last. ‘Would you sit, sir? Black leather or brown?’

‘Brown would seem appropriate. The streets are caked in filth. Your wife is most kind, sir. We called at the weaver’s next door but the lad turned us out. An ill-mannered lout,’ Hew observed idly.

‘Who, Tom?’ the shoemaker rose to the bait. ‘He’ll be feart of Archie Strachan. He’s been caught without his breeches and his master’s not best pleased. Beg pardon to the lady, there.’ He winked across at Meg.

‘Tsk, the young today!’ Hew shook his head. ‘He claims his shop’s closed, on market day, besides. Don’t you count that strange? I think I’ll have the black pair too. We don’t often come to town.’

The souter nodded greedily. ‘They’ve closed up for the funeral. They’re burying George Dyer. If you’re not from town I suppose you haven’t heard. We have had two murders, sir, and one of them next door, was Archie Strachan’s nephew. But they have the man, thank God.’

‘Indeed? How tragic. And you do not go yourself?’

‘To the burial?’ The cobbler pursed his lips. ‘Yon wisna that well liked, though it were wrang to say it. For all he was devout, a mean-mindit sort of man. We went to the wake, as was proper, but there was nothing there to drink,’ he said dismissively.

‘Do you know the Strachans well?’

Hew knew at once that he’d been over-keen in his interest. The cobbler stood up with a glint in his eye.

‘So that’s the brown and black, sir, to be ready for you Tuesday, if you’d like to leave your name. Since the lady seems recovered, I will say good day to you. Or was there something else you wanted? Pockets? Purses? Belts?’

Meg expressed an interest in a pocket, coloured a soft shade of grey. As the souter closed in for the sale, Hew renewed his questioning. ‘That lad seemed scared almost out of his wits. His master’s a cruel one, I doubt.’

The souter chuckled. ‘I’ll warrant he has made his feelings known. But Tom has more to fear than him. For
one
, there is the kirk, where he’ll be called to account for his lewdness. Ah, beg pardon, lass,’ he winked again at Meg.

‘He’ll not be the first,’ supposed Hew.

‘Aye, sir, nor the last.’ The man was warming to his theme. ‘For
two
, he was arrested for the murder of his master’s nephew, and was thrown in gaol, and all but hanged.’

‘You don’t say!’ Hew whistled. ‘The limmar!’

‘Aye. He did not do it, though,’ the souter said reluctantly.

‘Then how was it resolved?’

‘Well, sir, like I say, they have the man. And Tom was with his lass, which was how it all came out. For when she heard that Tom was taken, she came straight to Agnes Ford, that is the weaver’s wife you know, and did confess it all.’

‘
What
did she confess?’

‘Why, that they were shafting, when the boy was killed.’ He glanced at Meg and cleared his throat. ‘I mean the lad had
steered the pot
, if you will understand me. So Agnes told the coroner, and Tom was freed from gaol, to answer for his rudeness to the kirk.’

‘Better than the gallows,’ Hew observed judiciously.

The souter snorted. ‘Aye. And they say purgatory’s no as bad as Hell. Now, sir, do you want the purse? That’s fifteen shillings, then.’

‘Ah, no thank you. Just the shoes, for which I’ll call on Tuesday,’ Hew said hurriedly. ‘Come, Meg, are you well?’

‘I never saw a lad more scared,’ he muttered as they left the shop. ‘I’d like to question him.’

‘I cannot think what for. He has an answer to the charge,’ Meg pointed out.

Hew answered, mock severely, ‘Aye, and one I hoped you could not comprehend. You seem a little vexed, Meg. Did you want the pocket?’

‘Tis only that I’m tired. But I think I
might
have had one.’

He laughed at her. ‘You’re sulking! You’re a woman after all! Peace now, do not fret. If I can talk to Tom, then you shall have a gown.’

Meg retorted crossly, ‘It may cost you more than that before you’re done.’

They ate dinner with Giles, a cold mutton pie with a hard yellow crust, and a smear of Meg’s cheese on good barley bread. The servant was touchingly proud of the pie. ‘I bought it from the castle cook-shop as a change from salt herring and kale. I’ll clear the plates, Master Locke. I met Professor Herbert in the courtyard. He asks would you mind looking in on his wife? She’s had the bloody flux a week now and he’d like to have your thoughts.’

‘I must go, I suppose,’ grumbled Giles. ‘But you should say, Paul, I shall charge her. I’m a faculty professor, not a quacksalver brought from abroad to cure the college strumpets of their ills. They haven’t offered me a penny for the care I’ve given Nicholas. I’ve not been paid yet for the term, Hew, which is why we’re eating college kale and pies.’

‘I could give you something for him if you liked? I’m sure my father wouldn’t mind.’

‘No, I do not grudge him. But I’ll not give Herbert’s mistress free advice upon her bowels. Can you stay with Nicholas? I know that Paul has other work to do.’

‘You will, won’t you, Meg?’ His sister looked up from the fire. She had already begun to prepare a great cauldron of broth, roasting off onions and garlic, slicing the beef from the bone. She issued instructions to Paul. ‘If you keep the flame low, you may lift out the meat for Master Locke’s supper, then dampen it down and let the rest stew overnight. If there’s ale or wine left, you can stir in the dregs. Then when it’s quite dark, pour it through muslin and thicken it with herbs and barley. Or if you prefer it you can cook a capon in the liquor, like the French. The herbs here are for Master Colp.’ She glanced across at Giles. ‘There’s marigold, mugwort and thyme, Doctor Locke,
nothing more. Infuse them in a cupful of the broth and give it to him in drops on a spoon, as often and as much as you can. Of course I shall stay. I’m not wanted home before dark. But are you going out, Hew? Where?’

‘To St Leonard’s College. I sent word that I would like to call this afternoon. The principal expects me shortly after two.’

‘You won’t learn anything from him,’ insisted Giles. ‘He’s forever on his guard, and keeps his secrets closely. And he’ll remember you and Nicholas were friends.’

‘Indeed, I don’t intend to quiz him. Meg knows I have no flair for it. And I would hope he does remember me,’ Hew pretended to look hurt, ‘for as far as he’s concerned, I’ve heard nothing of the news. I’ve just returned from France. I’m out of work. In fact,’ he added thoughtfully, ‘that’s not a bad idea. For while I hold an opening there for Nicholas, the little I may earn will help to meet the cost of his defence. Come, if you’re about to leave we’ll make our way together to the street.’

The servant followed close behind them, fearful of a woman in the house. Meg was left alone to stir the broth. Absently, she nibbled on a leaf. At length she set the pot to bubble gently on the hearth and went to look at Nicholas.

The air in the room was already more sweet, but she was alarmed to find him lying twisted on the bed, his back in a curious arch. His breathing was rattled and low. Hurriedly she felt into her sleeve for a pocket, and opening it out, uncovered a handful of seeds. She knelt by the top of the bed and gripped his head hard, holding it tight with her knees. Then with all of her strength she forced open the jaw. She dropped the seeds into his mouth, pushing them down to the back of his throat. She continued to hold him, as well as she could, till the spasm began to die down, and his face lay rigid and grey, like a cracked mask of clay in the clamp of her hands. The mouth grinned bloody and frothing, gaping wide in pain. He was conscious for a moment; she saw it in his eyes, before they locked again and lost their focus. His body gave a great and noiseless sigh. His fingers began to uncurl.
She cupped his whole head in her hands and gently turned it. For a long time she sat by the bed, watching the tautness subside. When at last she was sure, she rose to her feet and steadied her hand on the wall. She had grown deathly pale. Shaking, she reached for the jug, and poured out a half cup of wine, which she drank with the rest of the seeds. She lay down among the rushes on the floor and fell into deep dreamless sleep.

Hew found it strange to be back in the college. It was just as he remembered it, the lecture hall and schools across the courtyard from the chapel, the kitchens and refectory, the washroom and latrines. He saw the window of the room that he had shared with Nicholas. Nicholas had been a pauper scholar, forced to lay the fires and fetch the water from the well, yet they became good friends. There had shared their hopes and fears, and worked together on responsions late into the night. At their last examination, both of them excelled. Nicholas obtained his licence and remained behind to teach while Hew had gone abroad to study for the law. He had written to Hew for a while, odd little satires, verses and squibs. But as Hew moved from Toulouse to Leuven, to Padua and back again to Paris, they had fallen out of touch. With a sense of nostalgia, Hew knocked on Gilchrist’s door.

‘Master Cullan? Do come in. I’ve been expecting you.’

‘It’s good of you to see me, Master Gilchrist. Strange to see the college so empty.’

‘We expect the students very soon. I’m always glad to welcome back a graduate. It’s Hew? Hew Cullan? I believe you had a brother here? No? Then let me see. Weren’t you here with George Buchanan?’

‘For a time, sir. I was beginning on my second year when you came to take his place.’

‘Quite so. I remember it now. You acquitted yourself well, I recall. You took distinction, did you not? You and another from your class.’ He frowned a little. ‘Tell me, why are you here?’

Hew was taken aback by the directness of the question. He decided to be equally direct in his reply.

‘I had hoped to ask you, sir, if you might recommend me to a place. I’ve been out of Scotland for six years, and I find I am forgotten by my friends. As you recall I took my licence here before continuing abroad to read the law. The pity is I find I have no calling for the bar. My mind’s fixed on a readership, for I lectured both in Paris and Leuven and find it suits me very well. I believe there is a vacancy to teach the civil laws in Edinburgh, in the gift of Mary of Guise. But my father’s set against it. He was an advocate himself of some repute.’

‘Edinburgh? Oh, that would be a pity, Hew.’ Gilchrist seized the bait. ‘You are aware, I suppose, that there’s no university there? We have professors in the civil laws here at St Andrews, within the higher faculties. Perhaps you did not know? There’s the king’s man at St Mary’s now, a most prodigious man. We’re growing all the while. And in a year or two, I’m sure we’ll have a place for you.’

‘Truly, principal, I wish I could be here for it. But unless I go in for the bar my father will withdraw his support. I can’t afford to wait.’

‘I can see that that’s a problem.
Unless
. . .’ he pretended to consider, furrowing his brow, ‘. . . I think I see a way, if you’re prepared to take a lesser post until a readership comes up. Do you recall enough to teach the magistrands? They’re well ahead this year.’ Hew detected an odd note, almost regret. ‘You need only read the metaphysics and the spheres, and take them through their disputations at the end. You’ll no doubt recall it’s a lucrative time. Presents of gloves, and feasts and the like.’ He waved his arms, suggesting vague largesse. ‘Term begins next month, so there’s time to prepare. Might you consider it?’

‘It’s true, I could do it,’ Hew capitulated. ‘I still have the texts. But what has become of their regent? Surely he expects to take them through?’

‘Alas,’ the principal sighed, composing a small smile of disappointment. ‘He’s fallen sick. In confidence, I tell you, we don’t
expect him to survive. It has all been rather sad. But we must make of our loss what we can. I have no doubt that you will make an excellent replacement. The college has come under close scrutiny by the king’s commissioners this last year, and some of our oldest traditions have been called into question. It has even been suggested that the regents should not teach the same class of students throughout their four years, lest they became too partial and intimate. As a graduate, you see how absurd that is.’ Hew nodded sympathetically. ‘And with our present difficulties . . .’ Gilchrist went on, encouraged, ‘well, it is enough to say we will be glad to have you back. Someone who has understood our ways. We’ll call it settled, then. If you’ll send for your books and arrange your affairs, I’ll have them prepare you a room.’