Hue and Cry

by Shirley McKay

  He jabbed with his finger back towards Hew, who stepped through the doorway, lapped like a ghost in the light from the fire.

  Lying on the floor of Giles Locke’s tower, Hew felt at home for the first time since leaving France. Giles had dragged a feather mattress into the centre of the room, on which his friend lay sprawling, gazing at the walls. The room was filled with objects from the Rue des Fosses, no less familiar because they were strange: discoloured substances floating in jars (he always had avoided those), compasses, astrolabes, globes and nocturnals, pigs’ feet and goats’ teeth, the beak of a gull. Curious though they were these things were not collectibles but used and loved. Several of the books were marked with crumbs of toasted cheese. Most comforting of all was Giles himself, both broad and tall, perched upon his bedstead at the flat side of the wall, his warmth and generosity enough to fill a larger room than this. They had finished the milk. Hew, against all advice, had sampled the plums and Giles had unearthed a flagon of brandy, most of which had now been drunk.

  ‘The truth is,’ Hew said suddenly, ‘I could have gone home. Tis only four miles.’

  ‘But?’ Giles prodded helpfully.

  ‘But I did not want to face my father. That’s the truth.’

  ‘Is he such a tyrant, then?’

  ‘Tyrant, no. If he were, it would not be a problem, for then I could thwart him and he could be damned. If he stormed and raged it would be easy to defy him. It’s his disappointment that’s so hard to bear.’

  ‘Disappointment? Stuff and nonsense.’ Giles felt a flood of affection, fuelled by the brandy, towards his young friend. ‘Always been exemplary.’

  ‘Oh, aye,’ Hew laughed dryly. ‘Four years at St Andrews, passed with distinction. Six years abroad with no indiscretions – apart from the cook at the Auberge du Coq.’

  ‘Whose lapin à la moutarde was beyond compare,’ Giles recalled fondly. ‘That alone were enough to excuse it. So what’s to disappoint him, then?’

  ‘Only after ten years spent in study, I have learned one thing. I do not want to be the man my father was.’

  ‘Ah. And is he set on that?’

  ‘He was an advocate of some repute. At the height of his power he abandoned the courts and retired to the country. Then his ambitions were all turned towards me.’

  ‘How singular. But why?’

  ‘I was twelve years old and in the grammar school. I did not ask him, Giles. I have thought since it was perhaps to do with the queen, for he was of her camp and had hoped to be queen’s advocate. He saw the tide turn and disliked the change.’

  ‘And yet he sent you to St Leonard’s?’ Giles remarked. ‘For a man of his leanings, St Salvator’s would seem the more obvious choice.’

  ‘Twas politic. In his heart, he would rather I had come here to the Auld College; in his heart, he would rather I kept the old faith. Yet he had me schooled against it. My schoolmaster was a friend of George Buchanan and they both had more influence on my early education than my father did. I cannot blame him for that, for they were good men and I learned well from them. But I felt he sold my soul for something he did not believe in, and I have long resented it.’

  ‘Perhaps,’ Giles consoled him, ‘you misunderstood. You were just a boy. Why don’t you talk to him?’

  Hew sighed. ‘I shall, of course, and of course I will not say these things. The truth is I still want to please him. But the deeper I go into it the less I like the law.’

  His friend shook his head ‘This is humour, I think, and will pass. It pleased you well enough in Paris.’

  ‘I will admit I like to win, and I find myself ashamed of it. Because this game of wits is always at someone’s expense. Too often it ends at the end of the rope.’

  ‘If you lacked such scruples I’d be more concerned,’ said Giles. ‘You merely want detachment, which will come with age. Besides, from what I have seen of the law, most of it concerns itself with property and debt, and in capital offences there is little to be done for the defence.’

  ‘Aye, and there should be,’ Hew proclaimed fiercely. ‘No, I’m done with argument, and sickened to the stomach with the law. Dispute for its own sake no longer interests me. I have fallen out of love with my profession. And when I tell my father, it will break his heart.’

  ‘Well,’ said Giles judiciously, ‘you may put off the telling. I prescribe a drink.’

  Hew refused another cup, and fell back upon the mattress looking at the ceiling. ‘What of your profession? Have you never had your doubts?’

  ‘There have been moments, certainly. At times the puke can pall. But I flatter myself I may do some good in the world. The one thing I do regret is accepting this post, for I have not been welcomed here. The professors have been courteously lukewarm.’

  ‘Perhaps it is your strange collections,’ Hew observed ironically. ‘Lights and livers sunk in pots.’

  ‘The specimens? What piffle! There are worse things at the fleshmarkets.’

  ‘Granted. But they don’t like change.’

  ‘That I can accept. But if the members of this college are suspicious, then the provost of St Leonard’s has been downright rude. He makes allusions constantly to leeches, quacks and sawbones, though of course he will protest that he does not refer to me.’

  ‘There has always been rivalry between the two colleges – who would win the golf, or the arrow at the butts – but I don’t recall it ever was so personal,’ reflected Hew. ‘Perhaps things will improve when term begins. I have a friend who is regent at St Leonard’s, a man called Nicholas Colp. We were students together. I should be sorry indeed if he were uncivil.’

  Giles shook his head. ‘I have not met the regents yet. But I have heard of Colp as a clever and devout man.’

  ‘He is both. I cannot think he would subscribe to such rudeness. I must look him up and ask him how he goes on with the principal. Gilchrist, is it still? I do not know him well, for he came newly in my time. Nicholas and I were students under George Buchanan, who was a true friend. He left to take up post as tutor to the king.’

  ‘Ah!’ Giles interrupted, ‘There’s the real news! The king has had his thirteenth birthday and at last is to leave the confines of Stirling Castle and make his progress. Even now, as we speak, he comes into Edinburgh. And next year, in the spring, he is expected here.’

  ‘The king left his castle? That’s news indeed!’

  ‘You cannot imagine the stir it has caused. And that, coupled with the anxiety over the new appointments – quacksalves and the like – has helped to fuel the tension in the college. The town and the university both are in uproar. King James has not been seen since infancy.’

  ‘He has had a strange childhood,’ Hew observed.

  ‘And most of it behind closed doors. I am interested to see how he appears. Some say he is a cripple, suckled by a drunk, and that he cannot walk without support.’

  ‘Poor boy! Rumour has made him a monster.’

  ‘For certain. And also a wit. The story goes that he was last in public at the opening of the parliament, when he was five years old. He found a hole there in the tablecloth and all the while his lords were making speeches he explored it with his fingers. Then at length he asked, “What place is this?” “Why, sire,” said the lords, “this is the parliament.” To which the king answered, “Then there is a hole in this parliament!” Which the crowds did take for proof of his great wisdom.’

  Hew laughed. ‘As well they might! You seem to know a good deal about him.’

  ‘Alas, I confess it. I have been charged to write his horoscope, for which I make a study of his early life. It is to be the college’s gift to him. St Leonard’s for their part are to put on a play, written by Nicholas Colp.’

  ‘Then you will have stiff competition.’ Hew looked across at the charts on the table. ‘Where is this horoscope? May I not see it?’

  ‘By no means,’ Giles winked at him. ‘Tis confidential to the king.’

  ‘A hint, then,’ Hew persisted, smil
ing. ‘Will he take the English crown?’

  ‘As to that old prediction,’ Giles said severely, ‘I could not possibly say. Besides, you know a horoscope does not foretell the future. I am a physician, not a necromancer. I can tell you merely whether he is prone to windy gout, or must beware the phases of the moon, or is disposed to toothache, or to jaundice or despair. In reality, of course, it will predict none of those things, but a long and healthy life, and go to great lengths in the proving that no illness shall befall him, because he is the king, you know, when all is said and done. The spheres themselves must shuffle to oblige him.’

  ‘Then, Giles, you are nothing but a fraud!’

  ‘Not at all,’ his friend replied seriously. ‘For hope is potent physic. An optimistic horoscope becomes its own effect.’ He stifled a yawn. ‘But no more of this now. I really must sleep. For if I don’t appear at prayers first thing on Sunday morning it will confirm their worst suspicions: I’m the devil’s man indeed. As for you, since no one knows you’re here there’s none to miss you. You may sleep the sleep of the righteous, and lie in as long as you please.’

  Nicholas

  Hew slept late into the morning. When at last he awoke he found himself alone, centred in the stillness of the tower. The light streaming in on motes of dust picked out the globe and astrolabe, the hourglass and the scales and measured out a world for him. He lay there for a while on his mattress, content to be still and remote at its heart, until the clamour of the kirk bell could no longer be ignored and the world outside began to reassert itself. The bell clock struck remorselessly. Eventually he gave in, threw open the high windows and looked out onto the street. A seagull strutting down below glanced up in contempt and plucked at the cobblestones, foraging for scraps. There was no one else in sight.

  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.’