Hue and Cry (14 page)

‘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 thank 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 the 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.

The physician wiped his hands. He could hear the servant in the other room, lifting the shutters and pouring out water. He longed to rinse his teeth. Below him on the little cot Nicholas lay still, his purple mouth split open like a plum. Giles had spent the night by his side, swilling the mouth with salt water and scooping the slush from the folds of his cheeks. He had woken quite by chance to find his patient dying, drowning in blood. Bound skull to craw, Nicholas had bitten his tongue. He lay there unable to swallow, blood beading soundlessly from nostril and lip. Giles had saved his life, stripping off the bandages to clear the blackened carcass of his throat. Now the airways were open, the patient breathed as faint and dreamless as before, sinking back into that strange unconsciousness. But Giles, as he began to set the jaw, had reconsidered. He fetched down his anatomies and spread them on the board beside the bed, squinting through the smoky stub of candlelight at Vesalius, his skeleton: the joints and sinews, skull and jaw, the brittle disc of cartilage that held the bone in place. Presently, he ran thoughtful fingers the length of his patient’s face, feeling for the bone in swollen flesh. The jaw shifted, loose and compliant. At last, as the end of the candle gave out, he made his experiment, a little pressure from the thumbs behind the teeth, coaxing the face into shape. He closed his eyes as he felt it snap into place, lips like a flower in the darkness, curling in close. The mouth was still too swollen to meet true, but the teeth were aligned and the tongue safely nestled within. Carefully he retied the cloths and with the cleanest sheet he tucked the body tightly to the bed. He bundled up the soiled strips, balanced on top the basin of mud-coloured water and joined Paul in the outer chamber, closing the door with his foot.

He was wearily dishevelled. The servant looked startled to see him. There was blood on his cheek, on the sleeve and the hem of his shirt. He set down his burden and gestured. ‘These rags are for the fire, Paul. Take out the slops.’

Paul did not move. He looked at the blood. ‘Had you the surgeon?’

Giles locked the door. He was fretful: ‘A fresh shirt, I’ll thank you. Some water. The surgeon? No. Mark you, you must burn the rags. Master Colp does very ill, but he is settled now. You’ll not disturb him.’

‘Is it blood in the basin? What will I do with it then?’

‘Do with it?’ Giles appeared puzzled. ‘Do what you do with the slops. But keep it from the drinking vessels. Have we any bread?’