Hue and Cry (24 page)

‘What?’ said Hew, startled. But Giles had dismissed him: ‘Now, my good friend, I bid you good day. I must prepare to face the rigours of the term.’

In her cousins’ house on the south street Meg was suffering. She had returned from Janet’s labour to find Lucy Linn in tears on her bed. She sobbed so profusely that Meg was in fear for the child. When at last she fell still, Meg crept out to the moonlight, crouching on the barren scrub of ground. She searched among the shadows for familiar shapes, the longed-for gardens, herbs and trees. But Lucy woke and called out from the window, and the ground remained stony and bare. Lucy’s moods were fuelled as much by terror as by petulance. Alone with the thought of her child, a monster distilling inside her, she gave way to her fears. And all her bright chatter of gossips and furniture, all the trivial comforts of her pretty painted house, were lamps against night terrors, lit in the darkness to fend off the fiend. That morning in the kirk had confirmed her worst suspicions. It was the spectre of the dyer’s child, who pled so wild and tearful for her mother’s life, that had brought the horror home to her. The dyer’s wife was low and coarse, yet still she had come close to dying. Lucy Linn was soft and fair.

Worn though she was, Meg soothed the sick fancies, lay by her mattress and smoothed out her hair. She told her over and over how Henry Dyer had appeared into the world, how Janet’s labour had been brave and safe at last, until her cousin like a bairn appeared to sink exhausted, only to begin again. In despair, she made up a draught that would lull them both to sleep. They slept through the night and half the next day, rising vexed and languid in the early afternoon. Meg felt she could no longer bear the air of torpor in the house. Lucy sat and sighed, sighed and sat, staring at her pattern sheets, the scraps of infant linen left untouched. Meg placed a hand on her shoulder.

‘Lucy, perhaps we will not stitch the frocks today. I have promised to return to see the dyer’s wife. She has need of herbs.’

Lucy recoiled. ‘You won’t leave me again?’

‘I thought we might go to the market,’ Meg pursued gently, ‘and visit the apothecary. And I should like some linen for a gown. It will lift your spirits to go out in the air. And you might see your friends.’

‘Aye,’ conceded Lucy weakly, ‘I should like to see Tibbie and Agnes. And Archie may have trimmings for the shawls.’

Meg felt drunk in the sunlight, light in the head from the lack of good rest. On the corner of the Mercatgait she found her shop beneath the symbol of the rose. The counters were well stocked with herbs both dried and fresh, and with a little guile Meg was able to induce the man to make his medicines to her own prescriptions, disguising her knowledge as innocent inquiry. By describing one or two imaginary ailments she was able to procure some medicines for herself and a calming draught for Lucy. An apprentice was despatched with herbs for Janet’s bleeding. Meg wished she could have gone herself. But Lucy pressed her on.

‘The air smells bad here, like a sick room.
Shall
we go? The weaver will have shut his shop. Why so long among the pills and potions, Meg?’

‘I have had the man make up a draught to calm your spirits, Lucy, and to cool you in the night,’ her cousin soothed. ‘It will help you sleep.’

A single lamp burned in Strachan’s shop and the booth seemed drab and crowded, dingier than Meg remembered it. Although the shutters were open, they allowed for little light and the brighter of the plaids were buried at the back, protected from the light that filtered through. Row upon row of black wool and hardens, coarse woven stemming and beggar-grey blanket gave the place a gloomy feel, with an unpleasant aftertaste of rancid grease and sweat.

At the sound of the door the weaver came gushing, unpleasantly rubbing his hands. His welcome hid reproach beneath the flattery. ‘Mistress Linn! But can this be business or pleasure? We have
missed you, as I do believe, on both accounts. We have not seen your husband since the wake. Tibbie, go tell your mother her good friend Lucy Linn is come at last. Agnes will be glad of it. For these are troubled times for us. Still, I hope you are well. And Robin Flett also . . . and this,’ he turned shrewdly to Meg, ‘but who is your friend?’

Lucy waved away his hand, carelessly dropping her glove.

‘I thank you. My husband is well. For myself, I am in thrall to my condition as you see, and may not come among my friends as I would please. This is Margret Cullan, my cousin.’

‘Indeed.’ He looked at Meg suspiciously. ‘You know the dyer’s wife, I think.’

‘Indeed, I did not know her until yesterday.’

‘Truly? A rare act of charity,’ he sneered.

‘Meg is very charitable,’ interrupted Lucy, sounding bored. ‘She is come until my lying in, and since she is come from the country, she has need of new clothes.
I
require some lace.’

‘But certainly. Tom here will show you the dress-stuffs.’ He motioned to a rack of cloths, ‘and here, Mistress Linn, are the laces. Which do you prefer?’

The prentice showed Meg to a rack of wools. ‘What colour did you want?’ he asked indifferently.

‘Grey, perhaps, or blue. I don’t know.’

‘Popinjay, partridge, watchett, plunkett,’ he catalogued patiently, ‘clodie, crane, clay-colour . . .’

‘So many?’ Meg said helplessly. She looked across at Lucy, who was talking to the weaver and fingering some lace.

‘Alexander, milk-and-water, sad-colour, rat-colour, gentleman, ash . . .’

‘Rat?’ Meg asked, startled.

‘Rat-colour, aye.’ He pulled a bolt of grey-black fabric from the shelf and dropped it with a thud upon the counter. Rat. How much do you want of it?’

Meg stroked the heavy cloth with sinking heart. ‘Something a little lighter. Mouse perhaps?’ She smiled appealingly.

He stared at her. ‘There’s no such shade.’

To Meg’s relief, her cousin rescued her, for there was nothing new in Strachan’s shop that could be found to please her. She dismissed the proffered ribbons. ‘These are plain and dull. They are not silk, I think. Where were they made?’

The weaver bridled. ‘For sure, they are the finest . . .’

Lucy shook her head. ‘I wanted something for my baby’s shawl. I would not have this for a pillow for my lapdog, it’s so coarse and rough. Where is your Flemish lace?’

Strachan’s face darkened. ‘We have none in stock. Perhaps when my brother comes . . .’

‘Tsk, then I’ll have Robin fetch it. Well then, I like nothing here. Are you coming, Meg?’ She pulled her cousin away from the counter, insisting, ‘You do not want
that
, such a dirty colour, not fit for a beggar. Do I see Tibbie there?’

‘What are you thinking of?’ Strachan raged at Tom. He hurried over to the counter. ‘Is
rat
a proper colour for a lady? Show the Alexander, or the crystalline, you fool.’ He gave a look that promised ill when once the shop was empty.

The boy said sullenly, with sudden reckless spirit, ‘Lady asked for greys.’

Archie turned towards the shelves. Heavily, he pulled out a bolt of soft greenish-blue and slammed it down on the counter. ‘This is our most special shade, most popular among the more discerning,’ he glanced meaningfully at Lucy, ‘in the town. As fate has it, this is our very last length.’

‘There’s more in the back,’ Tom put in truculently. Strachan ignored him.

‘Don’t you think it suits your friend’s complexion, Mistress Linn? Feel how fine the weave is, and how soft.’ He touched a corner of the wool against Meg’s cheek, and she suppressed a shudder. Thankfully, Lucy snatched it away.

‘How can you, sir? For was this not the cloth that wrapped your nephew?’

‘Well,’ Archie answered, a little nonplussed. ‘Tis not the
self-same
cloth.’

She squealed. ‘It disgusts me. And I’m feeling quite faint. Tibbie must take us through to her mother. Leave the cloths, Meg, and help me up the stair.’

Oblivious to her father’s glower, the girl led them willingly up through the back of the shop. Meg glanced surreptitiously around her, suppressing a slight swell of nausea, at the place where Alexander had died. The scent of oil and dust felt stronger here, and there were wools at every stage from pelt to plaid, in all the drabs and dyes from plum to puce. And yet there was no sign of industry. The two large looms stood still and vacant, and the floors were clean of threads. At the back built into the wall she saw the closet bed. But there nothing in the room to indicate what had happened there. All was quiet, still and neat.

Tibbie opened a small door upon a narrow twisting staircase, leading to the upper floor. Above, a corridor ran the length of the house, with a ladder to the loft at the back. The tiny gabled room was now reserved for Tom, and through this narrow passage he could come and go between it and the shop without encroaching on the family in the hall below. The main part of the house was a large and well-set family room, with a small pantry and a closet bed offset on either side. The standen bed of oak was over-stuffed and furnished; the walls, though unpainted, were heavily hung with new tapestries. The board was set with plate and clean green cloths. A gallery, part glazed, overhung the street, and in what remained of the daylight there Agnes sat sewing. She looked pale and tired. But when she saw her guests she set her work aside and forced a smile. ‘Lucy, come at last! You are most welcome, and your friend. We saw you at the kirk,’ she glanced at Meg approvingly. ‘Tibbie, help your father in the shop.’

Tibbie pulled a face ‘My father has no work for me. I only try his temper, which God knows, is sharp enough. And then he will vent it on Tom, which
you
say disquiets you.’ Meg feared he had
already done so. She thought she heard him cursing as they turned upon the stair.

‘What nonsense, lass, go to your spinning!’ Agnes snapped.

‘Minnie, the fleeces are done,’ Tibbie told her patiently. ‘And Tom has stopped the looms. We have wools and threads enough. Since my uncle will not take it on his ships, we shall not sell what we have already spun. My father is falling over it, and the sight of the bales makes him angry. If I spin, then I make even more of it; Tom will have to weave it and my father has to pay for dyeing of the cloth. And if I am idle, it enrages him further, since it proves the point we have no purpose to our work and no orders to fulfil.’

‘You must not speak so,’ Agnes scolded. ‘The wools will sell at the Andermas market, and we must be prepared. It’s not so far away.’

‘Will they, though?’ the girl protested, ‘
Where
then will we sell them? Unless my uncle comes, we shall not have a stall.’

‘For shame, Tibbie, what would your father say?’

‘He would say I was wrong, and know differently. Minnie, he cannot find the work for Tom, he has him sweeping up the threads a hundred times a day. There are no threads. Without my uncle, we cannot find the market for our leines, and the good wives who come to the shop here are looking for ribbons and laces and silks – uncle’s things,’ she shot a caustic glance at Lucy, ‘not coarse woollen shirtstuffs and plaids. Ask my father, has he sold a shirt today.’

‘You are wrong,’ said Agnes, stricken. ‘He will sell them on St Andrew’s Day. You must not say these things.’ She fumbled in her pocket. ‘Well, if you won’t spin,’ she recovered bravely, ‘you may go to market. Buy some flour and oatmeal. We shall have some cakes.’

Tibbie heaved a heavy sigh, shook her head, and took the coin. She clattered down the stairs and slammed the door.

‘Young quenes,’ sighed Agnes helplessly, ‘are every one the same.’

‘Is it true?’ Lucy asked her, ‘Your brother has left? He does not do business for you?’

Agnes flushed a little. ‘
Archie’s
brother sailed some time since for the Flemish markets. It’s true he did not take our wools.
But he is sore distracted by the murder of his son. You know this from your husband. He has interests in the ship.’

‘He has an equal share,’ corrected Lucy. ‘They are partners. Robin will be back before the fair.’ She cupped her hands upon her womb to force the point. ‘He
must
be back. Perhaps Gilbert will come too, and he will bring the ribbons and the lace. He’s certain to return.’

‘Perhaps.’ Agnes changed the subject. ‘Come, I forget myself, for you look worn. Lie on the bed awhile, Lucy, I’ll warm up some milk. And if Tibbie comes with the flour, and is not waylaid by her gossips, which we cannot count upon, I’ll make us all some cakes.’

‘I wonder you have no flour in the house.’

Meg blushed at Lucy’s tactlessness. But Agnes answered patiently. ‘I like to buy it fresh. When Tibbie does return, you’ll taste the difference. Meanwhile, won’t you rest?’

‘It’s true, I have a headache. I will rest a little.’ Lucy lay back on the bolsters of the oak standing bed, and sighed theatrically.

‘Will you sit, Margret, here by the window?’ Agnes drew up a stool. ‘We’ll speak softly, so as not to disturb her. I saw you at the kirk. I’m glad you helped the dyer’s wife. In fact I felt ashamed of it. I wished I might have gone myself. Tell me, though, how does she now?’

‘I have not returned to see her.’ Meg glanced warily at Lucy. ‘I regret it.’

Agnes understood. ‘Tis difficult, I know. I doubt you have done what you could.’

‘It is my hope.’ Meg dropped her voice. ‘Yet I fear she bleeds profusely and has need of herbs to stem the flood. We are come from the apothecary. His prentice goes to see her now.’

‘Which do you use?’ Agnes asked in interest. ‘My husband does not rate him in the marketplace.’

‘Ah,’ called Lucy keenly from the bed, listening all the while. ‘Meg knows all the secrets. You should have seen how she tricked the man. She wrote the script herself. And she devises it so cleverly, that the man thinks it was his idea. With flattery, you know.
How silly these men are. She is a cunning creature, Agnes. I am greatly out of spirits with the waxing of my child, which the physician says must be borne,’ she chuckled at the pun, ‘and tis perverse it does not please me, but Meg knows the secrets to settle and soothe me. She is wise indeed.’

‘Lucy was fevered and fretful,’ Meg corrected quickly, ‘I gave her a water of lettuce to calm her heat. It will not harm the child.’