Hue and Cry (3 page)

Giles had left butter and bread, and Hew took a book from the shelf to a small recess by the window where he ate his breakfast in the candour of the sun. Below the chapel doors swung open and St Salvator’s scholars emerged from their prayers, blinking owlishly. Crowds were turning into the north street. Hew heard laughter in the cloisters on the north side of the tower. The door below stairs seemed to open and close but Giles himself did not return. It was some time later when the servant Paul appeared with a message from his master and a slab of mutton pie.

‘Doctor Locke is detained at the New College; their principal is dying. Again.’

Hew suppressed a smile. It was the ‘again’ that had provoked it, for the servant’s face and voice gave nothing away. The New College of St Mary had begun to consolidate its interests in the teaching of theology. Its principal, Professor Lamb, professed himself so close to God that he had hovered at His door for twenty years. Still, perhaps it had come true at last, and his bluff had finally been called.

As if he read his mind the servant went on, frowning, ‘Doctor Locke has gone over there determined to cure him once and for all. It won’t go down well. So he says to you, sir, he may not be home before supper, and please to make use of his books and whatever. That’s if you’re minded to stay?’

The proper thing to do would have been to take his leave politely and walk the four miles to his father’s house at Kenly Green. It was a fair day, and warm, and he need not hire a horse. He would arrive before suppertime, and well before dark. Yet even as he thought this, he heard himself say, ‘I’ll stay another night here, if I may. I ought to go to church. Are there evening prayers still at St Leonard’s?’

The servant seemed surprised. ‘There is a service, sir. Master Gilchrist was made minister there last summer, and he has restored the old parish. Tis somewhat dreich, I doubt. Yon man at Holy Trinity puts on a better show.’

Hew laughed. ‘I’m sure he does. But St Leonard’s is my college and my parish kirk as well. I’ll hear the sermon there.’

He paused only to exchange his coat of mustard-coloured silk for a scholar’s gown he found hanging on a nail behind the door. Giles had asked him, after all, to make free with his things. His own clothes were too flamboyant. He preferred to break in quietly upon the past.

The college of St Leonard lay within the precincts of the old priory in the lee of the cathedral. As Hew approached the gate the chapel bell fell silent and the outer doors were closed. The congregation was already settled in the kirk. He found another doorway to the west, new since his last visit, open to a flight of wooden stairs. At the top he discovered a deep open loft, constructed to isolate the college from the commoners, and from this vantage point he had a clear view of both scholars and parishioners, and the minister himself, mounted on the stage. There were no seats on the bare earth below, but there were several benches for the scholars in the loft. Hew found a vacant one close to the door. A small clutch of scholars clustered in front. One or
two had wives and children, in defiance of the rule. The masters, called regents, were responsible for the education and the moral welfare of their students through the four years of their course in philosophy and arts. Presiding over all, Hew recognised James Gilchrist, provost and principal master of St Leonard’s College and minister of St Leonard’s parish, theologian, scholar, and the scourge of Doctor Locke. He had embarked upon the lesson in a smooth, cultured voice that somehow still retained an undernote of peevishness, depressingly familiar from Hew’s undergraduate days.

But the Lord said unto Samuel, Look not on his countenance, or on the height of his stature because I have refused him: for the Lord seeth not as man seeth; for man looketh on the outward appearance, but the Lord looketh on the heart.

The minister stood straighter as he spoke the verse, and his fingers strayed unconsciously towards his beard. He was a man to whom appearances were everything, to his fellow men as much as to God. He wore his hair perfumed and curled. When he had first come to St Leonard’s it had caused quite a stir. The boy who had attended him each morning in his chamber reported that the master wore a strange contraption ‘like a mousetrap’ on his beard to keep the hairs neat while he slept. The beard was waxed black, cut sharp as a Spaniard’s. There had been nothing of the sort with George Buchanan.

Smiling to himself, Hew allowed his eyes to drift towards the regents in the front row, looking for his old friend Nicholas Colp. He found him sitting with his head bowed, sober and devout.

God knoweth your hearts
,
for that which is highly esteemed among men is an abomination in the sight of God.

It was a sentiment that would appeal to Nicholas. Hew was leaning forward in the hope of catching his eye when the look on his
friend’s face stopped him cold. Nicholas was not composed. He did not smile or purse his lips at what was sheer hypocrisy but showed his own heart starkly in his face, a clear and striking horror that Hew barely recognised. He felt for a moment that he had seen into the dark place of his soul. A moment later, watching Nicholas discreetly as he closed his eyes to pray, he realised he had made a mistake. It was not horror he had seen in his friend’s face, but something almost worse: Nicholas was weak from want of food. In prayer his face seemed crumpled like an old man’s in repose. His skin was pale as water, and his shirt fell loosely round him, for he wore no coat or gown. Nicholas was sick. And the sickness, whatever it was, went deeper than the gloss of mere appearances.

After the service Hew waited for his friend to emerge. Nicholas looked blank for a moment, and then his smile returned a touch of its old sweetness to his face. He welcomed Hew’s return. He spoke of past adventures and Hew’s travels overseas, the visit of the king and the play that he was writing, and a textbook that he hoped would suit the grammar school. Still Hew sensed a lingering discomfort. At last he dared to ask, ‘You are ill, I think?’

Nicholas shrugged. ‘I had a chill. It passed. I find I do not sleep so well these warm nights.’ He shifted a little, as though tired of standing.

‘What happened to your leg?’ Hew noticed blood on the hem of his shirt, an ominous blackness beginning to spread.

His friend laughed nervously. ‘A foolish, childish thing. You remember how we used to steal the apples from the priory garden? Well, last night I was given some by the gardener. I peeled one with my knife, as we always used to do, and the blade slipped, cutting deep. Retribution at last! I had thought that the bleeding had stopped.’

Hew stared at him. The priory apples blossomed late, and would not be ripe by Michaelmas. He was astonished at the plainness of the lie.

Nicholas looked down. ‘I ought to change my shirt.’

Several things went through Hew’s mind, but he did not know how to broach them. In their place he ventured, ‘Have you met my good friend Doctor Locke? He is the new provost at St Salvator’s, and a fine physician. If you are unwell, I recommend him strongly.’

‘I’m quite well, I assure you,’ Nicholas said stiffly.

‘Then I recommend him all the more.’

Nicholas relaxed into a smile. ‘As a friend of yours I would be glad to meet him. I have no need of physic.’

‘And no means of paying for it,’ Hew thought shrewdly, ‘yet we’ll find a way.’

‘All I know of Doctor Locke is that Gilchrist is afraid of him,’ Nicholas continued, with a hint of his old self, ‘and for
that
I am disposed to like him straight away.’

‘
You there! Master Colp!
’ They were interrupted by a college servant hurrying towards them. Hew shrank back a little, unwilling to be challenged as a stranger. But the man ignored him, calling out to Nicholas, ‘You’re wanted at the weaver’s house, aye, now sir, straight away sir, for the lad has run away.’

‘No, it is not possible.’ It was not an exclamation but a statement of despair. The weariness was palpable.

‘What is this about?’ Hew inquired gently.

It was some moments before Nicholas could answer him. He struggled to express himself.

‘It is a boy that I was teaching. They will say it is my fault.’

‘How could it be your fault?’

‘I will explain it. No,’ he shook his head, ‘I cannot explain it. Forgive me, I must go to them.’ As though the resolution were enough he did not move. ‘I’ll go to them.’

Hew took his arm. ‘We both will go,’ he told him firmly. ‘And you can tell me on the way.’

‘The thing is,’ Nicholas said miserably as they went by the cathedral, ‘that yesterday I told them he was too young to start here next term. It was no fault of his.’

A haar from the sea had masked the frail sunshine. It clutched at Hew’s chest. Nicholas looked chilled to the bone.

‘Tell it plainly,’ prompted Hew, ‘and from the start.’

‘There is not much to tell. I have been tutoring a young boy, Alexander Strachan. His father is a merchant from Perth, very rich, and a friend of our principal Gilchrist. His mother is dead. The boy has been staying with his uncle Archie Strachan who is a weaver in the town. The uncle’s a bit of a bully.’

Hew gave an exclamation. ‘I met him! Yesterday, on Mercatgait, I’m sure of it! In fact, now I think on it, I may have seen you there!’

‘Really?’ Nicholas looked taken aback. ‘Well, if you have met him you will understand the sort of man he is. I have been teaching his nephew now for several weeks, because Gilchrist has promised him a place at the college, although he has no Latin, not to speak of. The boy is willing enough, but he is too young and badly schooled to matriculate this year. And yesterday, I told his uncle so. I told him that the boy was not to blame. Nonetheless, I think that he may have chastised him, and now we see the consequence. The lad has run away. Look, here we are at the house. That is Agnes Ford, Archie Strachan’s wife.’

Hew sensed a rawness in the woman at the door. Her cheeks were blotched pink as if recently scrubbed. She spoke with a false note of brightness. ‘Master Colp, I’m so glad you could come . . . and you have brought a friend.’

‘Master Cullan from the college,’ Nicholas said briefly.

Agnes smiled mechanically at Hew. ‘Come into the house.’

‘Has the boy not returned?’ Nicholas asked anxiously. He hung back, reluctant to enter. Hew could understand why. Dull in the distance they heard her man grumble, voice rumbling dangerously into a roar. Agnes smiled again, that same deceptive brightness, masking features strained and worn. ‘Whisht, Archie!’ she called out, ‘for we have company. Tibbie will see to the broth.’

‘He only wants his dinner,’ she excused him, as if he were the
bad-tempered boggle in an ancient nursery tale. Hew suppressed a smile.

‘No, he’s not come home,’ she replied to Nicholas. ‘And I confess, I’m fearful. I have never known him stay away so long.’

‘
How
long?’ interjected Hew.

Agnes flushed a little. ‘We have not seen him since last night. You see, Archie went to market down at Crail a little after five this morning, and I thought he had taken Alexander with him, so the boy was not missed until Archie’s return. And then it turned out . . .’ she paused to glance at Nicholas.

‘Aye?’ Hew persisted.

‘Well, sir, it turned out, that after Master Colp had come to hear his lesson – that was yesterday, at six – his uncle reprimanded him for failing at his task.’

Nicholas hunched his shoulders, ‘That was not what I said,’ he protested.

‘Nonetheless, Archie had words with him,’ Agnes said apologetically. ‘We have not seen him since.’

‘Did your husband beat him?’ Nicholas demanded. Hew heard him murmuring under his breath, ‘
Mea culpa, mihi ignosce
; for I did not know, forgive me.’

Agnes gazed at him curiously for a moment before she replied. ‘You should know, Master Colp, that my husband does blame you. Don’t take it ill. You see, sir,’ she appealed to Hew, ‘Archie’s had a skinful at the market, and he’s not himself. And Alexander left some letters. They’re addressed to Master Colp.’

‘Letters,’ Nicholas echoed dully. ‘Have you read them?’

‘Archie said we weren’t to open them, since they’re addressed to you. Besides, they were in Latin,’ Agnes added more convincingly. ‘We left them in his room.’

Archie Strachan sat in his shirt tails, moodily poking the fire. A great pot of fragrant liquid bubbled on the hearth where his daughter Tibbie was setting out a cloth. She did not look up as they entered but began meekly to ladle pottage into bowls.

‘Master Colp has come,’ Agnes spoke out brightly, ‘and a scholar from the college come to help him. This is Master Cullan.’

Hew was grateful for the borrowed gown. The weaver scarcely glanced at him.

‘Ye bided your time, did ye no’?’ he snarled at Nicholas. ‘Did ye bring the bugger back?’

Strachan swayed dangerously as he rose to his feet, and Hew realised he was far too drunk to suffer rational argument. It was Agnes, surprisingly firm, who answered for them.

‘Master Colp doesn’t know where Alexander’s gone any more than we do, Archie. Yet he has been good enough to come and help us look for him. Aye, and brought his friend. Now we’re away upstairs. You drink your broth.’

She shivered as she spoke, clutching at her shawl. Hew could see Agnes was afraid of something. It was not her husband, slumping in his broth. Archie was a bully, to be sure, and Hew suspected he saw bruises darkening at her wrists. Still, he thought, it was not that, for Agnes could contain him; that much was apparent in the way she spoke to him. She allowed her husband the mere semblance of control. So there was something else, some new threat to the world she ordered and endured. Not her nephew, surely? Boys his age played truant all the time. Doubtless he’d come home again, none the worse for wear. But Agnes knit her fingers, plucking at her gown, as if she feared her whole world might unravel.

The loft room was airless, rank with candle fat, and Hew hung back a little in the shadow of the door. Agnes set the candle down and watched as Nicholas began to look around. The cot was well furnished with grey woollen blankets and surprisingly fresh linen sheets. Someone looked after the boy. At the bottom of the bed stood an ironbound chest, and to its side a writing table, stool and straight-backed chair. The ledge above the bed held a water pot and a pair of pewter candlesticks. The writing table had been neatly set out for the lesson. A grammar book, the
Ars minor
of
Donatus, sat next to inkhorn, pens and pocket knife, a tidy sheaf of papers and a lump of sealing wax. On top lay a slim bundle of what looked like letters; still tied with ribbon, though no longer sealed. Nicholas slit the ribbons with the penknife and glanced quickly down at the opening page. Frowning slightly, he turned towards Agnes: ‘There’s nothing here, mistress. Simply some verses he was turning into Latin for me.’ He glanced across at Hew. ‘It seems he has been working rather harder than his uncle gave him credit for. But don’t you think it’s odd he didn’t take his knife with him, if he meant to run away? Did his father give him money, do you know?’