Authors: Shirley McKay
He looked to Harry for support, but Harry, for the moment, seemed to have deserted him, deaf to his appeal. ‘It is no trouble, sir. And you will like to see the place, where they slung the cardinal.’ This Hew began to doubt. The sergeant had a stance of rude and bluff belligerence he did not like at all. ‘Ye are quite safe wi’ Tam,’ was Harry’s parting shot. Tam Fairlie grinned at Hew. ‘And what do you have there?’
Hew clenched tight his fist, closing round the crown. ‘I have no idea. I found it in the channel cut into the rock.’
‘Oh aye? A bird’s nest.’ The sergeant dismissed it.
‘I doubt that any bird could weave so fine a hand,’ Hew assured him, coldly; he would not be cowed.
Tam Fairlie glowered at him. ‘Aye, is that a fact? Step this way, my friend, and look into the dungeon ye were keen to see.’ He took a step aside, so that Hew was forced ahead of him, and harried from behind. In that small tower of corners there was no hope of escape. Hew was irritated, rather than afraid, for he recognised the sergeant as the common sort of bully, who tormented for the pleasure of it, meaning no real threat.
Tam had unlocked the door upon a vaulted hole, with no clear source of light, and little source of air, but for a channel vent that was cut into the rock. The cell was not the blackest hole that Hew had ever stumbled in, and scarcely yet a pit, but it was dank and dark, and he was glad enough when Harry reappeared, with the rope and lamp. ‘Now, sir, shift yer feet. For you are on the trap.’
In the fog of yellow light, Hew became aware that he was standing on a trapdoor, several feet across. Hurriedly, he stepped aside, and pressed himself against the wall, where there was far less room.
‘Good man,’ Harry grinned. ‘That port is heavy, see? It takes the baith of us a’ our strength to shift it.’
Tam Fairlie swore at Harry. ‘Ye are feeble as a lass.’
The door was lifted with the rope, and tied up on a hook, opening to a chasm cut deep in the rock. Harry tied the lantern handle to the length of rope, and lowered it to the pit, swinging in an arc. ‘Come, sir, take a look.’ Hew stepped a little forward from the comfort of the wall, to peer down from the edge. He felt Tam Fairlie breathing, closely at his neck, fierce and hot and sour. ‘Now, sir, look at that.’ Tam’s hand closed on his. ‘It is a long way doon.’
Into the chasm, Tam dropped the crown, sounding the depths, marking its fall. The pit widened at the bottom, in a flagon shape, eight or nine yards down. Hew saw the hawthorn splinter, brittle in the lamplight, landing at the bottom with a gentle thud, that echoed far above. ‘You want to mind your step, sir. Ye wouldna like to fall.’
Hew felt his stomach lurch. ‘I could do with air.’ He caught the pale light glinting through the open door.
‘I expect ye could,’ smirked Tam. ‘Harry here will see you safe. Your doctor friend awaits ye.’
‘Ye did not say that he was waiting,’ Hew accused him, heavily relieved to stagger back outside.
‘As I came to tell ye, sir,’ the sergeant said impassively, ‘when ye were so incontinent to see inside the pit.’
‘You maunna mind him,’ Harry said, as they walked to the gate. ‘Tis likely that the hawthorn crown was made by his wee lass, in one o’ her strange plays. She is a tender cause to him. He does not like to speak of it.’
Giles was at the guardhouse, deep in conversation with a futeman of the guard. ‘This is John Richan,’ he explained to Hew. ‘He has come from Orkney. He came here as a bowman, but has injured his right shoulder.’
The young sentry gaped at him. ‘Wha telt you that?’
‘Why, you did yourself.’
‘I telt thou my name, nothing mair.’
‘Richan is an Orkney name, not found about these parts. And you have the measure of it sounding in your voice. It is a pleasing sound. You hold your right arm stiff, which maks it plain to see that you are in some pain from it. You are a straight and supple lad, and I dare to hazard, not quite fully grown, though you are already taller than is common here; your growing puts a strain and a tightness in your back. In our college we are wont to hold a competition at this time of year among the students who can shoot the bow, and I have seen many a young lad, pliable and green, exert and strain himself, in lifting up a bow that is too heavy for him, or taking up the practick when his limbs were cold, or in the early morning of a winter frost, or in the summer dampness of a cooling haar. All such things are hazardous,’ Giles Locke diagnosed.
Harry Petrie ventured, standing by with Hew. ‘Can ye help him, sir? The surgeon could not find a cause for his affliction.’
‘The surgeon, with respect,’ Giles snorted, ‘is a natural fool. The shoulder has been overworked. The remedy is rest.’
‘Then there is no help for it. Sin ye have met our sergeant, sir,’ Harry glanced at Hew, ‘you will be aware we are not let to rest. John must shoot his arrows, or else be discharged.’
Giles saw the soldier’s plight, and answered sympathetically. ‘My wife may have a remedy.’ He said aside to Hew. ‘Do you recall the exercises I prescribed for Nicholas, to strengthen his weak limbs?’
‘For Nicholas?’ Hew frowned. ‘But surely, you do not propose that Meg should place her hands on him?’
‘Piffle, Hew. It is a boy. No older than the students we let through our colleges. Meg kens how to handle them. And she will be with Paul. The case will do her good, and she will do a deal of good, ye may be sure, for him.’ Giles was undeterred. ‘When you next have leave,’ he advised the sentry, ‘come down to my house.’
John Richan found his voice. ‘I thank you, but I cannot, sir. It would no be right.’
‘He will come, sir, on my life,’ Harry Petrie swore. He clapped John on the back. ‘I’ll fetch him there myself.’
‘This is a curious place,’ Hew remarked to Giles as they quit the castle gates. ‘I cannot help but think that there are secrets here.’
‘Then it will amuse you.’ Giles seemed thoughtful and distracted, somewhat out of sorts.
‘How did you find Patrick?’ wondered Hew.
‘Peevish, sick and sore. There is no doubt he is ill, as I will write to Andro. But he is not inclined to consult me for the remedy, and so I am resolved I cannot help him more. The potions he is taking are the armoury of quacksalves, mostly stagnant waters, chalk and sugar pills. But he has no intention of heeding my advice.’
The doctor was offended; Hew concealed his smile. ‘And what advice was that?’
‘Light diet, air and exercise,’ Giles reported briskly. ‘Amend his way of life. His humours are as black as any I have found. Above all he should leave this place, where rankness seems to seep from every foetid pore and every foul effluvium is hardened into stone.’
Chapter 10
Men at Work
The hammering began at dawn. The builders had arrived. And so began the first of many days and weeks that drove Meg to distraction, left alone with Matthew in the din and filth of it, to battle in the stew. Giles retired each morning to his turret tower, returning once the dust had settled to inspect the works. A chasm opened up beneath the kitchen floor, where burly men were lodged, coming up at intervals to swear and whistle freely, and stamp their sweaty dirt tracks up and through the house. Giles had pinned up dustsheets to contain the stour. ‘On no account go down. Canny Bett will serve the kitchen, see to all your needs.’ His nights were spent in consultation, closed up with the architect, making small adjustments or additions to his ordinance, while Meg paced with Matthew, who was cutting teeth. The sheets brought no protection from the noise. And so Meg was confined to an upper chamber, with a squalling infant, feverish and cross, despairing of the laich house and her husband’s plans for it, oblivious to the purpose it was meant to serve.
Halfway through the morning on the fifth day of the works, when Meg had settled Matthew to a fretful sleep, the servant Paul brought news. ‘Twa soldiers fae the castle guard are asking leave to speak wi’ ye. They say the doctor sent them. Will I turn them off?’
‘Show them up,’ Meg sighed. ‘For Doctor Locke did mention it.’ Giles had told her of the archer with the damaged shoulder, though he had not warned her to expect his friend. The room in which she camped was ill-equipped for guests, filled with all her own
belongings and the household furniture, carried there for safety from the nether hall. It would have to serve, for there was nowhere else.
Paul brought the men upstairs. One was tall and fair, and hung back reluctantly; the patient, Meg supposed. The other had red hair, and an open, friendly face. He spoke up for his friend. ‘This is John Richan, mistress. I am Harry Petrie. Your husband Doctor Locke said that we might come to you.’
‘For sure.’ Meg smiled at him. ‘You must excuse the muddle, we have warkmen in. Which one of you is hurt?’
‘John here.’ Harry pushed him forward. ‘Pay no heed to his manners, for he isna used to company. And he wad no have come, had I not pushed him to it, but the plain truth is that he is sair afflicted, and he cannot raise his hand.’
The young man denied this, staring at his shoes. ‘There is no purpose tae wir coman but for spilling o’ thy time.’
‘Speak proper, man,’ urged Harry. ‘Else we canna comprehend ye.’
‘You are not from the town here?’ Meg inferred.
‘Na, lady. Fae Orkney.’ John spoke low and mellow, and did not look up.
‘Then you are a long way from home. Will you sit down, John, and take off your shirt?’
The young man blushed bright as a rose. He was not much older than the students at St Salvator’s, and nothing in his manners marked him for a soldier. ‘I cannot do that, lady. It wid no be right.’
Harry laughed aloud. ‘Tak courage will ye, John! He’s an unco modest laddie and a stubborn limmar too. Ye must needs be quite strict with him. Shall we strip him down?’
‘Perhaps,’ suggested Meg, ‘you would like to wait outside?’ She saw she could not hope to win the soldier’s trust with Paul and Harry Petrie smirking by his side. ‘Paul will take you down with him, and find you some refreshment.’
‘An’ then come back,’ conceded Paul, ‘and help you with his friend.’
This was not what Meg had hoped for, but it was not unexpected. She recovered quickly. ‘I shall want you to go out, for this requires a remedy we do not have at hand. Go to the apothecar, and ask for a salve of marguerites in turpentine. He will call it
bellis minor
, or
consolida
. Ask only for the leaf, we do not want the flower. And ask him to put mallow in it. When you have returned with it, you may see it work.’ By which time, she would have the shirt off, and the soldier’s confidence.
‘Canny Bett will fetch it,’ Paul proposed. Dimly, he was conscious that he should not leave the house.
‘Go back down and tell her then. And bid the builders rest awhile from their incessant hammering, while I tend this man.’ Meg had to raise her voice in order to be heard. She glanced across at Matthew, stirring in his crib. ‘Their thundering this morning has jolted the whole house, as though they were intent on shaking it from under us. Send them out for air, with something strong to drink, and pour a draught for Harry here, and something for yourself.’
‘Richt civil of ye, mistress,’ Harry Petrie smiled. ‘She will not bite ye, John!’
Canny Bett was peeling onions at the kitchen board. From time to time she paused to wipe away the tears on sleeves already streaked with flour and grime and soot. She was making broth according to Meg’s recipe, and though she followed carefully the long list of ingredients – the foreign roots and spices, dried herbs and fresh leaves, that Canny on her own would have thrown out as weeds – her flavours never matched the height and depth of Meg’s, for Canny Bett was not a natural cook. Elbow deep in onion skins, she felt no warmth for visitors, and scowled to see the soldier at the door with Paul. Never on the grand side, the kitchen now was cramped, partly by the chasm that had opened in the floor, and partly by the ale and wine butts from the cellar, which were pushed against the window, propping up the board. The larder, press and kitchen shelves were covered with thick cloth, not strong enough or
fine enough to keep out the dust, which settled in the butter pail, and on the tubs of vegetables. What remained of the floorboards were scuffed and thick with dirt, the earth dredged up in clouts and trampled through the door.
‘Mind where ye pit yer feet!’ she snapped.
‘Ye are to gang to the pottinger, for to fetch a salve of
bellis consolida
, and hae him put the cost of it onto the doctor’s reckoning,’ Paul informed her cautiously, conscious of the soldier standing at his back.
Canny rolled her eyes. ‘Whit sort of bells is that?’
‘Daisies, to you.’
The lass heaved a
humph
. She was not accustomed to answering to Paul and, true to form and habit, she answered with an argument. ‘Since ye ken a’ aboot it, why not go yersel?’
In a different sort of household, there would be no contest. Paul was Giles’ servant, Canny Bett was Meg’s, and Paul would have as clear dominion over Canny Bett as would have his master over his own wife. But, somehow, in this house, that was not how things turned out; both Meg and Canny Bett were minded to be obstinate, strong in wit and will, and both out-flummoxed Paul.
Paul would have preferred if this had been less evident. But Harry Petrie waited, civil and respectful, at the kitchen door, a decent man was that. He had taken off his hat, and held it in his hands, and he had wiped his boots, so as not to add to the dirt upon the floor.
‘Wha’s ta make the dennar, then?’ was Canny’s parting shot.
‘The neeps an’ that will wait. Ye will not long be gone.’
Underneath the floor, the sound of scraping stilled, and a head poked, whistling, halfway through the hatch, followed by a clod of earth.
‘Ye are to stop now,’ called Paul, grasping at the lull which had broken in the hammering, ‘an’ come up fer refection.’
‘An’ come up fer
what
?’
‘For a brek, an’ a drink.’
‘Ach, billie,’ the builder said, ‘Nae need for that. The doctor left a barrel doon, maist gentle an’ maist mannerly, for when we hae a thirst.’
The head ducked down again. And the hammering resumed. Paul knelt down above the hole, and bellowed like a bull calf. ‘For pity, will ye stop?’
‘Eh? Whit’s that ye say?’
‘Come up.’
The scraping shovel stopped, and there was silence for a moment, before the head appeared once more in the opening, and a pair of shoulders followed it, and heaved out to the deck. The second man came after, wiping off the sweat. ‘Whit is the matter now?’
‘Ye are to break off for a while, and go out on to the cliff. Take that pile of
fuillie
with you,’ Paul gestured at the muck.
The workman scratched his beard. ‘Wha says so, then?’ He looked back at his friend, who frowned and shook his head. ‘The maister says to dig until the dinner hour.’ The master of the works had already quit the site, and left the heavy groundwork to his hireling labourers, the work requiring less of skill than strength.
‘The mistress says,’ urged Paul. ‘She maun hae peace an’ quiet, for to tend a soldier.’
The words did not sound right, and Paul had cause to curse as soon as they were out. The builder nudged his friend. ‘Tending tae a soldier? The guid doctor’s wife?’
Canny Bett intruded, in a high, indignant voice. ‘Ye mauuna speak o’ her in that foul filthsum voice, for wan hair on that lass’s head is worth the weight of you. And
that
were lourd enough, lubbard that ye are.’
‘Aye, is that right? An’ ye wad tend a man, full tenderly, I doubt.’ The builder leant across, and groped at Canny playfully. There was nothing in the faintest playful in her slap.
‘Ye hard wee bitter bitch.’ He caught her by the wrists. ‘I’ll mak ye tender yet.’
Canny gave a screech, less of fear then fury, swore and stamped her feet.
‘Let the lassie go.’
Paul knew in his heart that he should have protected her. He knew the words, and spoke them, clearly, in his head. Yet when he heard them said, it was Harry Petrie said them. He stepped out from the doorway, to confront the builder, brave and calm and quietly. The builder turned to stare at him, dropping Canny Bett. Canny kicked him in the shin, shot Harry back a glance that bore no trace of gratitude, glared at Paul and fled, presumably to follow through the errand to the pothecar. They heard the front door slam.
‘Wha the fuck are you?’
‘A futeman fae the castle guard. And if ye want to tak it further, step wi’ me outside.’
The two men squared up warily. The workman was the bigger of the two, broad and tall and flabby, with more brawn than wit. Harry’s frame was small and balanced, muscular and lean. The outcome of a fight between them could not be assured, though the consequence of fighting would be ruinous to both. The builder’s colleague plucked his sleeve. ‘Leave, it, Jockie,’ he suggested.
Jockie dropped his fist. ‘A wee brek, ye say?’ he spat back at Paul.
Paul agreed, hoarsely. ‘My mistress has promised ye no loss of pay.’
‘There is a barrow in the yard there filled up wi’ dirt. We can tak it to the shore,’ the two men agreed. But Jockie hissed, in passing, ‘We are not settled yet.’
Left with Harry Petrie, Paul did not know what to say. He coloured in his shame. But Harry gave no hint that Paul had disappointed him. Rather the reverse.
‘Tis a grand thing,’ he admired, ‘to have kenning o’ the Latin, and a clear command of such a house as this. All my life, I have done what I wis telt, with a boot about my arse and a rope about my back, for want of wit and scholarcraft. Sir, I envy you.’
Paul found a pair of beakers in the kitchen almery and blew them free from dust. He poured them both a cup of ale. ‘You do not care to be a futeman, then?’
‘I am no a futeman, truth be told. I am a sentry in the castle guard. Our work is to defend the precinct o’ the bishop’s court, and sometimes we are called upon to keep peace in the town, but maistly we stand and watch, and watch and stand, and clean our swords and guns; and our sergeant sends us up an’ doon on marching tricks and exercises, and we cannae fire the guns, for we may have no powder, save with the permission of the king, so God alone may ken what service we might do, a dozen unarmed men with one half-crippled archer,’ Harry Petrie laughed. ‘This ale is douce and sweet, and you, sir, are a gentle man. Your guid complice, too.’
‘My complice?’ echoed Paul.
‘Your partner, Doctor Locke.’
Paul was warmly gratified by Harry Petrie’s flattery. The soldier took him for a learned man. And why then, should he not? Paul had picked up many things from the doctor and his wife. Small knowledge was a danger, Doctor Locke believed; his wife contended, teach him, then. Paul felt for Giles and Meg a fondness mixed with pride, that verged at times on pity and exasperation, and at other times to something close to love. He doubted they could manage well without his help.
He was wearing, too, one of Hew’s old coats, a doublet sewn from light blue silk, and though the tail and neck were not the latest cut, he knew that Harry Petrie would not realise this; soldiers were not noted for their fashion sense. He had taken Paul on trust, and made the same mistake as had the widow Bannerman, when Paul had turned up at her ailing husband’s bedside, with a phial of physick sent by Giles. What little did it matter, if she took him for a complice of the learned doctor, for but for want of learning that was what he was. It had not been his intention to deceive her. Many servants wore their master’s cast off clothes. The fact that Hew was not his master was a point of fact, that could not count against him; since Hew would keep no man
by him but for the frugal Nicholas, it made perfect sense that they should come to Paul. The doctor’s clothes were practical, distinctive and voluminous, ill-fitted to adapting to the role of hand-me-downs. Hew was far more slender, and had better taste.
‘He is not, exactly, my partner.’ Paul felt compelled to honesty as he refilled their cups.
‘But you have his confidence,’ Harry said, persuasively, ‘and that is a thing to admire.’ Paul considered. ‘True enough.’
‘A man might be a lord, in service to the king, or like the archbishop, in service to God. A servant may become a king, if only he will rise to it. The Stewarts were themselves no more than stewards to a king.’
‘Even so,’ protested Paul, ‘I am not servant to a king.’ He was encouraged all the same, and wondered whether he might reasonably construct himself, before the widow Bannerman, as steward of his master’s house.
‘I have no doubt,’ Harry went on, ‘that ye maun be privy to all manner of rare things. And being in your master’s confidence, are steward of his trust, secretar of his heart.’
‘Very right an’ true,’ Paul nodded, full fair pleased with that.