Hue and Cry (18 page)

‘Scarcely at all.’

‘Well then, we may go. For myself, I have not seen the Strachans since the lykewake. They won’t presume on our affections if we do our shopping there.’

Hew rose to his feet. ‘Well, if it will please you, Meg shall come tomorrow, and to kirk on Sunday. And at the risk of dismaying your husband, my sister must have some new clothes.’

‘So she shall,’ winked Lucy. ‘What my husband does not know may not disquiet him. And I knew you were not cruel, as you pretend. But hurry, he will wonder what has kept you. Whatever he advises, thank him sagely. Present to him your scholar’s face, most proper and severe.’

Hew bowed and left her preening, fluffing out her skirts. He thought her petted, squat and spoiled inside her painted house. For a moment, irresistibly, he pictured her squab linnet plumes in the maw of the gingerbread cat.

‘I confess,’ said Robin Flett, ‘I took you for a stranger when you came into my house so pale and wild of countenance. I fear your education has impaired your wits, taking you so far from the world, or else the cruel affliction we have spoken of affects you too. From a child, you are much changed.’

They were walking in the harbour by the sea gate. On their left, the high walls of the priory rose to the cathedral; on the right, the fishing boats lay bleaching in the silt, the fishermen mending their nets. Hew bowed ironically.

‘You are blunt, sir. It is true my sister’s condition has affected me, though not in the sense you imply. I have been away from home these past ten years. In truth, I left a child. Last night my father told me of my sister’s illness. It was news to me. In consequence, I have not slept, being much disturbed in my mind as to what should now become of her. If I alarmed you or your wife then I am sorry for it.’

‘Tis no matter,’ Flett said graciously. ‘Let the news itself excuse the manner of its coming. I have read your father’s letter. You may tell him I accept his terms. But you were talking to my wife. What did she say to you?’

‘She asked about my sister, and whether she might go with her to kirk.’

‘Ah, did she? We shall speak on that. I do not wish my wife to have acquaintance with her former friends, the Strachans. I expect you to assure it. Do you understand?’

‘I understand you, sir. But, may I ask you why?’

Robin sighed impatiently. They had come upon a group of sailors, making fast their craft. He paused to let them pass.

‘Walk with me to the pier.’

He led the way beyond the inner harbour, high upon the rocks hewn from the old cathedral, looking out to sea.

‘Do you see that ship? It is the
Angel
.’

Hew gazed across the water. The boat was moored out of the shallows, quietly sketched upon the horizon. The small boats had ceased their traffic back and forth, and were beached upon the sands. The sea was still.

‘She’s a beauty,’ he said cautiously.

‘Aye, is she not? She’s small and light enough to take the slightest rivers, yet she carries eighty tonnes. Ye would not think it, though, to look at her.’

‘What does she carry?’

‘Fleeces, hides and wools from the Michaelmas markets. Our first port is Campvere, our staple in the Low Countries. With a following wind, it should take us four or five days. From Campvere, if the winds hold, I hope to make the journey down the Rhine to purchase apples, onions, spices, wines – fodder for the winter months, when luxuries are scarce. My main lines are hardware, timbers and iron; I rarely deal in trinkets. Then back here by St Andrew’s Day in time for the birth of my child. You see how I am pressed, and how relieved I am to have your sister come to help us at this time. But – in answer to your question – a third share in the ship belongs to Gilbert Strachan. He is my partner and friend.’

‘Does he sail with you tomorrow?’

Robin shook his head. ‘He is, you understand, a most prodigious man. His elder sons are based in Campvere, and will take care of his particular cargo when we land. For the moment, it is under the watch of the shipmaster, who owns the final share. It’s evident that Gilbert speculates in something, and has cut the man a part of it. He paid him richly to take care of it, and he guards it well. There was a time when I myself should have been privy to this fortune. I regret that the death of his son has left him mistrustful and uncertain of his friends. In particular, he has turned against his brother.’

‘And you in turn reflect this turning?’ Hew said shrewdly.

‘Aye, I do. I want Gilbert to know that I am his friend.’

‘And partner in his fortunes. What’s his usual trade?’

‘Before the boy’s death, he exported wool. His imports are luxury goods, laces and silks, suckets and soaps, colours and candies, perfumes and wines. Archie’s cloths are of poor quality, and Gilbert makes little from their sale. He has been generous to his brother; trading with him for silks of far higher value. Now relations have turned sour. For what went on in that house, Gilbert cannot forgive him. That he turned it to his profit was more shameful still.’

‘More shameful than what?’

Robin dropped his voice, as though the foreign sailors might interpret as he spoke. ‘The weaver has been privy to most loose and scandalous conducts. I know my wife well, Master Cullan, and I know she will beguile you with her tricks and wiles to suffer her acquaintance with her friends. On no account permit this. I cannot tell to Lucy the true nature of the evil in that house, but I must counsel you, the place is vile.’

‘It may be counted as evil enough that Gilbert Strachan’s son was murdered there,’ Hew reasoned. ‘That she knows already. Is there worse?’

‘Aye, there is worse.’ Robin scowled. ‘As if it were not bad enough that Archie Strachan’s prentice kept a whore, aye, beneath his nose, he left his nephew prey to most unnatural friendships. That friend of yours, the tutor, sodomised the boy. I see by your face, sir, you did not know
that
.’

‘I did not,’ Hew lied gravely, ‘but how do
you
know it?’ ‘Because Gilbert Strachan told me so, here by the shore and in his own words, come fresh from the justiciary to swear the change against him.’

‘It is a serious charge. Can there be proof of it?’

‘Aye, there are proofs. Agnes Ford, the weaver’s wife, has sworn it to the Crown. She witnessed him removing letters, which afterwards were brought before the justice clerk and proved the tutor’s
guilt. She was with him also when he found the body, for it was he who led them there. And she bears witness also, that the dyer had suspected them. He warned the tutor, who killed him for his pains.’

‘How did the dyer know?’ Hew asked uneasily.

‘He was the sort of man who sniffed out secrets. Though how Agnes came to hear, I cannot say. But since all this was under Strachan’s roof, I do not wish my wife to grace his house.’

‘I understand,’ said Hew. ‘Then it was Agnes who swore the disposition?’

‘Aye. She is a good woman, and the soundness of her testimony, as Gilbert said to me, must be his only comfort. What’s your interest, Hew?’

Hew shrugged. ‘It is the law that holds my interest, little else.’

Flett nodded. ‘You are your father’s son. You say you know the man. You cannot hope to make defence of him?’

‘On this account,’ his cousin answered quietly, ‘it would appear that I cannot. Now, sir, you will excuse me; I must exercise my horse.’

When Hew arrived with Dun Scottis at the east sands Giles was already waiting, pacing back and forth the sunlit bay. He wore his doctor’s gown and cap, spilling out his full black beard, and underneath, incongruous, a pair of riding boots, great billowing waders that rose to his thigh, above which his breeches were pillowed and taut. Under his arm swung a stout stick, less riding crop than cudgel, and in his hands he held a clutch of books beneath a pair of spectacles. To Hew’s alarm, he was also wearing spurs. ‘Ah, there you are,’ he beamed. ‘You brought the horse. Now, ordinarily, of course, it were better to begin his lessons in the early morning, before he has his provender . . .’

‘There is no “before” his provender,’ interrupted Hew. ‘He has it all the time.’

Giles cleared his throat. ‘Quite so. And for that reason, you
know, we have brought him to the shore, away from temptation of pasture. So, to begin . . .’

‘May I observe,’ Hew said pleasantly, ‘that if you mean to use that cudgel on my horse, then I shall have to wrap it round your neck. Which would prejudice our friendship, don’t you think?’

Giles looked startled, then a little hurt. ‘It’s only for effect. You need not take that tone. No, listen, this will please you.’

‘Forgive me for asking, but do you know anything at all about horses?’ Hew retorted.

Giles brandished the books. ‘It’s all here: cavalry, chivalry, surgery, husbandry . . .’

Hew laughed ironically. ‘It was a book that got me into this.’ He remembered Duns Scotus.

‘Aye, and books will get you out. Why, if every man who had a horse would only buy a book . . .’ Giles seemed slightly flustered at the prospect. ‘No matter. Horses are like medicine, just the same. You see, your dun-coloured horse is of the element of earth, that makes him dull and slothful. It’s a melancholic horse. And as with humans we can let his blood in order to redress . . .’

Hew shook his head. ‘I’ll have none of it. If I did believe his disposition rose from his complexion and that my sad-coloured horse is a sad-
natured
horse – and I
don’t
believe it – then still I vow I would not have him bled. I would cure his melancholia with tenderness and cherishing.’

Giles stared at him a moment. At length he said, ‘God knows, I love you, Hew, but you have strange ideas. Now, listen, here are instructions for correcting faults in horses, just like yours.’

He thumbed through the leaves of a book. ‘Here’s one: “To remedy a horse that rears up its head when corrected for faults with a blow to the head with a stick.”’

‘Aye, here’s one,’ interjected Hew. ‘Don’t hit its head with a stick.’

‘Aye, that would serve,’ allowed Giles. ‘Now,
this
is your horse: “To remedy a horse that stops short when tired, and will not walk on in spite of correction . . .” oh, this is no good!’ He frowned
as he read, ‘For even if it were not cruel, I should hardly call it practical.’

‘What is it?’ Hew looked up in interest.

‘“Have a man put a flame to its posteriors.” No, that won’t do at all,’ Giles declared judiciously. ‘For first, as I admit it does seem somewhat cruel . . .’

‘If a flame were put to your posteriors, I dare say even you would run fair like the wind,’ Hew put in unkindly. Giles chose to ignore him.

‘. . . and for second, it would not be thought expedient to have a man beside you all the way to Kenly Green, his torch forever blowing out. I see that you are right. We must move on to the practice. Hold his head still, Hew, for I intend to mount him.’

‘Mount him?’ Hew echoed faintly.

‘Aye. You have made him too soft. We must show him who’s in charge. Though I confess, it is a while since I was on a horse. Should I run and vault him, do you think?’

‘Ah, perhaps not,’ Hew answered hastily. Let me lead him to the rocks where you may find a vantage point.’

He held the horse steady, shielding its eyes from the onslaught about to descend on its back. At the third or fourth heave Giles arrived in the saddle. To Dun Scottis’ credit he did not buckle or sag. Giles straightened up, looking pleased. He motioned to Hew to pass him the books, and held them open in his lap, balancing the spectacles on his bridge of his nose. He had to screw up his face somewhat to keep them in place. With his left hand he took up the rein, and in the sternest of tones instructed the horse to walk on. Dun Scottis embarked on a delicate trot. Then, without warning, he slid to the ground and lay on his belly, his head sinking low to the sand. For a moment, Hew thought Giles had broken him, quite literally. His friend did not dismount, but seeming perplexed, freed his boots from the stirrups and planted his feet on the ground.

‘Get off him!’ Hew hissed. But Giles did not heed. He lifted
his heels and drove them full hard into the flank on either side of the horse. Perhaps he had forgotten the spurs. Dun Scottis roared. He reared not his head but the whole of his self, with effortless strength tipping Giles from his back and over the roll of the saddle, boots flailing deep in the sand. The horn-rimmed spectacles flew in a graceful arc into a clump of seaweed. And Dun Scottis kicked up a billow of dust and fled down the beach with the wind in his hair, as though someone had set a white flame on his tail.

Giles sat up cautiously, spitting out sand.

‘It’s a fine enough day still,’ he ventured, ‘Perhaps a short walk by the shore?’

They followed the trail as far as the pier, where the hoofprints disappeared into the sea. ‘Do you think he could have swum across the water?’ Giles asked, perplexed.

‘Anything is possible. Let us walk back as far as the cliffs and come up to the harbour from the south, for then we cannot miss him. There is nowhere else to go.’

They traced their steps back to the edge of the bay and the coarse clumps of seagrass known as the bents, but there was no sign of Dun Scottis nuzzling in the reeds. Giles was crestfallen.

‘I fear he has been stolen.’

‘Well and good, if he has,’ muttered Hew. ‘But rest assured, if he is stolen, he will likely be returned. Come, we will walk up the Kirk Heugh and look down from there, where we are sure to see him. He cannot be far away.’

They climbed the stone steps that led from the harbour towards the cathedral, to the old kirk of St Mary that stood on the rock, and from that vantage point looked back down to the bay. Beyond the tall masts of the ships and wide flanks of the fishing boats the beach was empty. Only the foaming white waves reared and bucked, as if they had swallowed him whole. Giles lowered himself gingerly onto the grass and shook the sand out of his boots. Hew felt a little sorry for him. He suspected he was bruised. ‘Well, it can’t be helped,’ Hew told him philosophically. ‘We should be going home.’ He helped
Giles to his feet, for he was moving stiffly now, and further up the hill towards the Castlegait. At the entrance to the castle was a dewy clump of grass, and there they found the dun horse Scottis, like an old and faithful soldier, standing sleek and salty from the sea.