‘Will you take him back, then?’ asked the groom.
‘Thank you, no, I mean to keep him.’
‘Sir,’ the groom lowered his voice, ‘that horse has had a hard life, though he’s sleek and healthy now. Sometimes, when a horse has been ill used it makes him stupid. Yon’s a useless horse. It can’t be helped.’
‘Might not kindness mend him?’ Hew said softly.
‘No, sir. Take him back.’
‘Nonetheless . . .’ Hew slipped the halter over his arm and led the horse out of the yard. He did not wish to mount in front of the groom. The stable lad stared after him.
‘Why’d he buy the shit horse?’ he wondered aloud.
‘Whisht,’ the groom told him sternly. ‘He’s your master’s son.’
‘But why would he keep it?’ persisted the boy.
The groom shrugged. ‘Soft in the head,’ he conceded, ‘doubtless due to being schooled in France.’
* * *
‘Nicholas is charged with sodomie and slaughter,’ Doctor Locke said tersely. He splashed his face with a jug of cold water and spat out the dregs. Hew stared at him in disbelief. ‘It’s madness, Giles. I lived with him for four years at St Leonard’s. We shared a bed. If he lusted after boys, I would have known.’
They were standing in the turret, where they were not overlooked. Still Giles had fastened and bolted the door. Hew had left Dun Scottis in the street below. He found a boy to hold him, for payment of two shillings and another kept on promise. The first lad he approached had refused. ‘Shit Scottis? Not likely!’ did not augur well. But the next boy, though small, had proved willing, and Hew had accepted his offer, with more pressing things on his mind.
Giles was explaining: ‘I only report what I heard. The coroner was here this morning to set out the case against him, though he is still too sick to be disturbed. He is supposed to have been in love with Alexander Strachan, and to have killed him in the throes of their unnatural converse.’
‘That is very likely,’ Hew said dryly. ‘What about the dyer?
‘He had wind of their love and was blackmailing Colp. Don’t scowl at me so. I only report what I heard.’
‘Is there evidence of this?’ demanded Hew.
Giles inclined his head. ‘A regent, Robert Black, found incriminating letters in the room he shared with Nicholas.’
‘I saw Nicholas take letters,’ Hew admitted reluctantly, ‘from the boy’s room in the Strachan house. He hid them in his clothes.’
The doctor sighed. ‘It’s possible that they will drop the charge of sodomie, since neither Gilchrist nor the boy’s father is anxious to have it come out. The murders are a different matter.’
‘It was Nicholas who found Alexander’s body. But what about the dyer?’ Hew persisted.
‘He was drowned in a vat of his own dye. An unpleasant death,’ Giles observed. ‘The lye had stripped away his lungs, like vitriol. Nicholas was found beside him, overcome by fumes. And that is all I know.’
‘I should never have left him,’ Hew whispered. ‘This is my fault.’
Giles regarded him curiously. ‘I cannot see how it was your fault,’ he reasoned. ‘But come in and see him. He may be awake.’
He opened a door on the straight side of the tower room. Hew had not noticed it before.
‘It’s really just a closet,’ Giles explained. ‘You may find the air a little stale. Cover your mouth, if you will.’
On a low pallet mattress Nicholas stirred, wrapped in a damp linen sheet. It smelled like a shroud. He seemed to dream in conversations, shifting and endless, for as he slept he grumbled, frowned and sighed. Hew watched the doctor place a cooling hand upon his pulse.
‘He’s coming round. It’s time to draw a little more blood. If you wouldn’t mind holding him up?’
He flicked open the case of the lancet and wiped the blade on his sleeve. Hew shuddered:
‘Giles, must you?’
‘It seems that I must, for the college won’t pay for a surgeon. I grant you it’s hardly my place.’
‘That’s not what I meant. He looks so pale and lifeless.’
In his years as a student Hew had been routinely bled and purged as prophylactic against the plague. He did not think it ever did him good.
‘Hew, do I tell you how to practick in the courts? The cup now, quickly. If he spews it’s a good sign. Dammit, man, you’ve got blood on my hands.’
Suddenly faint, Hew had let the bowl slip, splashing the physician with blood. He turned away from the bed. Giles began to mop up. ‘You may be right, though,’ he conceded, ‘we could blister him instead. There now, that’s enough. He’s out of it.’
Hew was standing with his back to them, looking out into the tower room, breathing heavily. His shoulders were hunched. Giles set down the cup and came to his side.
‘Is he dead?’ Hew asked, trembling.
‘He’s unconscious. It’s a blessing, you know. It won’t be for long. Don’t take it amiss, Hew. Many men sicken at blood. You should have said.’
Hew excused himself quickly. ‘No, it’s the smell. What is it, Giles? It stinks like rotting kale.’
‘Putrefaction. It could be his leg or my dinner; they both have been equally foul. Oh, my dear friend,’ the doctor caught sight of Hew’s stricken face, ‘forgive me, I forget myself. Come in and look at him now. You’ll find him at peace.’
Hew returned to the cot, his handkerchief pressed to his face. Giles had changed the splattered sheet and Nicholas looked pale and clean, resting neatly on his side. He made no movement or sound.
‘In your letter you mentioned a flesh wound. How come he’s so sick?’
‘It’s a small cut, but deep,’ explained Giles. ‘The wound has grown putrid. The poison’s corrupting his blood. You see how black it streams?’ Hew looked away quickly. ‘And there’s increasing stiffness in the limb. I am afraid it may be lockjaw. Hush now, we’ll leave him to sleep.’ He hung the soiled towel on a nail in the wall and motioned Hew out of the room. His friend took a gulp of clean air.
‘Is there nothing more that you can do?’
Giles regarded him thoughtfully. ‘There’s nothing more I am prepared to do, though I have not cast his horoscope. Like you, I rather thought I’d done enough. You could pay a surgeon to take off his leg. True, the wound’s high, but skilfully done it might help stop the spread of the poison. But don’t look to me to assist.’
Hew swallowed. ‘Could it save his life?’
‘It could. But for what? His leg will roast with the rest of him. On or off.’
‘You think he did it then? You think he killed the boy?’
The doctor shook his head. ‘It scarcely signifies. I think that it’s better to die in a clean college bed than to swing on the scaffold. Don’t you?’
‘But you’re a man of physic, Giles. You cannot choose to let him die,’ Hew pleaded.
‘God will choose,’ Giles answered patiently. ‘I’ve done what I can. I’ve poulticed and bled him to balance the humours. Hypericum to cleanse the wound, milk of white rose – it’s very expensive – and a little neat brandy to deaden the pain. He’s comfortable here.’
‘And there’s nothing more to be done?’
‘If you will, call the surgeon. They’ll hang him in parts.’
Hew searched around for an answer. ‘Might perhaps my sister nurse him?’ he suggested. ‘She has grown up on the farm, and is skilled in natural physic.’
‘Is she past fifty?’ Giles asked dryly.
‘What?’
‘I’m sorry, Hew. I don’t mean to make light of it. The college frowns on women under fifty years of age. Still, I think we can get round that, at least until the term begins. Professor Herbert has installed a wife who can’t be more than twenty-three. Though she is extremely plain, that is a mitigating factor. Your sister, though. Will she come?’
‘I’m sure of it. She’ll cook for you. She’s a grand cook, you’ll like her.’ He forced out a smile.
�
��Then she must come at once.’ The doctor brightened. ‘I’d give my new plum doublet for a piece of roasted meat. Everything I’ve eaten since I came here has been boiled in mutton fat. And if Nicholas recovers, then I hope you’ll make a case for him. He has few enough friends. In the depths of his fever he calls out for the boy, no one else. He’s deeply disturbed in his mind.’
‘But he hasn’t confessed?’ Hew asked anxiously.
‘Oddly enough, he has not. But listen! Have they come for him? There’s some sort of commotion outside!’
Hew made his way to the window and drew back the shutters. ‘It’s nothing. Someone has upturned his cart, a fruitman on his way to market. It looks like some sort of . . . Oh!’
A cartload of apples and plums were bowling like boules down the north street. In the midst of it all, freed from his tethers, cavorted a dun-coloured horse.
Hew returned by the shore, with the horse in disgrace at his heels. He walked in the swell of the wind; it helped him to focus his thoughts. Salt from the sea washed out the sharp taste, like a tooth turning bad, from his mouth. It was dark when he opened the gate. In the warmth of the hall, over supper of oatmeal and cheese, he told them about Nicholas. His plans for his sister were met with dismay. He could see that she was willing, for she spoke of herbs and medicines, but a glance towards her father held her back. Matthew shook his head. ‘You don’t understand what you ask, Hew. She isn’t as strong as she looks.’
‘There’s no danger she’ll fall sick, or I wouldn’t take her,’ argued Hew. ‘It’s a putrefying wound. I know she’s cleansed them often on the farm. The steward’s wife will feed you for a day or two, I’m sure. You cannot keep her here forever, sir; she’s young, she needs to see the world. I swear I’ll look after her. If you could see him you’d realise. He’s too ill to be moved.’ He tried not to remember the vomit, the stream of black blood.
‘And what of your mediciner?’
‘He’s done what he can.’
Matthew nodded. ‘I remember your friend. A sweet boy; a scholar. Tell me again of the charge.’
He sat silent for a long time quiet after Hew had told him. Finally he spoke.
‘Then as I see it, it amounts to this. He may have killed the dyer or the boy, or neither, or both. He may also, or only, be a sodomite, but if he did not kill the boy that may not signify; the Strachans will not wish to press the charge. If you are to speak for him, Hew, you must find out the truth. Take Meg if you will, but take care of her. Trust me when I say she is not as strong as she seems. But, you’re right of course. She has to go out in the world. I won’t always be here to protect her.’
‘Does she really need protection, Father? Or does she stay for your sake?’
‘Perhaps.’ His father smiled at him. ‘Your sister knows her mind. She’s determined to go with you. Consider, though, that if she saves his life, it may be to condemn him to another, crueller death.’
Hew nodded. ‘Aye, I know. Giles said the same.’
‘Then he’s a better man than medic. I should like to meet him. But if you mean to find the truth, then you must learn to open your mind and close your heart. If it does come out as sodomie . . . God love him, Hew,’ he ended quietly. ‘I saw a young boy burned alive on Castle Hill for something of the sort.’
Salvator
They set off for the town at first light. Meg brought a basket of herbs, still wet, and a fresh sheep’s cheese for Giles Locke. They had broken their fast in the darkness, sharing a loaf by the side of the fire. Matthew Cullan grumbled out of bed to take his leave of them. He whispered awhile in the corner with Meg. Hew stood apart like a stranger.
‘We’ll be back before nightfall,’ Hew promised. ‘Come, Meg. It will take us an hour if we go by the cliffs. And since it looks warm, shall we walk?’
They did so, for the day broke hot and fair. At Kinkell Braes they turned off from the road and made their way towards the shore. For a while the path led them through thick swathes of thistle and thorn, where leafy fern and marram grass obscured the water’s edge. Meg filled her basket with brambles and rosehips, and as they fought their way through clumps of weed they feasted on blackberries, and were children again, forgetting their shyness, chasing through the nettles and the gorse. Presently, as they came closer to the cliffs, they saw the ragged outline of the maiden rock, and beyond it the outcrop of shoreline, black against the smoothness of the sea. A thousand seabirds flecked the rocks, from the stillness of the water to the pallid wash of cloud, forming layers of muted colours to the hills beyond. The landscape rose in strips of undulating flatness, the rocks a streak of blackness in the grey rush of the water, and the sea a streak of darkness in the whiteness of the sky. Then, as the light changed, they saw the pale arc of the bay, the curvature of windswept sand, coloured like the harvest, ripe against the perfect blue of the sea. The beach circled round to the pier, where the waters broke and scattered freely, sending spray like sleet above the harbour wall. And rising from the bay, they saw the town.
Meg caught her brother’s hand. ‘It’s beautiful, Hew!’
‘Had you not seen it before?’ he teased.
‘For sure, I never tire of it.’
Far above the harbour stretched the spires of the cathedral, its east gable window striking dark against the clouds. Behind it stood the sombre square-cut tower of St Rule, while the steeple of the town kirk and the weather vane and spire of St Salvator’s chapel flanked it in the distance, high above the north and market streets. As they approached, the darkness of the stone gave way to grey and yellow walls, echoing the warm tones of the sand.
‘The central tower has crumbled since I saw it last,’ Hew observed.
Meg nodded sadly. ‘Father will no longer come to town, for he cannot bear to see it. He says that it had weathered storms for nigh four hundred years, when in twenty the reformers stripped it to the bone. And when he was a lad, the roof was made of copper, that when the sun came slanting through the haar did wink and cast its burnished glow upon the town.’
Hew snorted, ‘Aye, the glint of gold the fat priests fleeced from pilgrims. I do not think our father ever saw its glow; that is pure stuff and sentiment. The destruction of that church is no bad thing, for it was built on falsehood, and a heap of broken bones.’
‘How could it not be bad, Hew?’ she challenged him. ‘The cathedral was our heart. And all the town that grew up in its shade, in the absence of its warmth must wither up and die.’
‘Come with me through the Sea Yett,’ he replied, ‘on to the south street, or up the harbour steps towards the Swallowgait, and I will shown you fine new houses, with lintels and forestairs, and Dutch craw-stepped gables, quarried from your dead cathedral.’
‘I have seen them, and admire them,’ she admitted. ‘Yet I fear the change.’
‘This is my father’s fault, for he has kept you cloistered far too long. The town reforms, but does not perish.’
They passed through the sea gate and turned on to the north street, where a clutch of shrieking gulls swept round the fisher cross. ‘It’s market day,’ said Meg, wrinkling up her nose. The cobblestones were wet with slime. Hurriedly, they crossed to St Salvator’s College. Doctor Locke sat reading in his rooms, oblivious to haddie criers and their stink of fish.
‘I had not thought to see you here so soon,’ he welcomed them. ‘Mistress, I am glad to meet you. Thank you, you may go now.’ This last was to his servant, who was watching them curiously. ‘My friends will stay till dinner, so I shan’t eat in the hall. Can you bring us something different, Paul?’
‘I brought you some cheese,’ Meg ventured timidly. ‘It’s fresh from the farm.’
‘Is it?’ He sniffed at the parcel. ‘Child, you’re a saint. But you’ve come to see Nicholas. I’ve been to the chapel to pray for him, Hew. I’m afraid he grows worse. He’s too weak to countenance loss of more blood. Nonetheless, come on in.’
Hew preferred to stay outside. In deference to his sister he hovered at the far side
of the door. Meg had no such qualms. She walked in at once to the bed and looked over the patient. ‘May I touch him?’ she asked, folding back the sheet.
Giles gave a cough, looking on in amusement. ‘Indeed, child, go on.’ She was feeling through the bandages for Nicholas’ thigh.
‘What are you doing?’ her brother objected.
‘Be still, will you, Hew! I’m taking his pulse.’
‘In the groin?’
‘I don’t hear him complain.’ She flushed a little under his gaze but continued to probe for stiffness in the limb. ‘It’s in spasm. It’s the lockjaw,’ she concluded at last, carefully wiping her hands on the sheet.
The doctor nodded gravely. ‘I felt it there this morning. If it spreads to the throat he will die.’
‘I’ve seen it happen so. Pray God it will not spread. But, sir,’ she seemed to hesitate, and then continued rather quickly, ‘as for the putrefaction, I have had some success with spaghnum moss and oil of hypericum flower. I have both in my basket. I could dress the wound now if you hold the leg still?’
‘Indeed?’ The doctor stared at her. ‘I’ve a compress of hypericum applied, but no moss. A good battle salve. Where do you find it?’
‘I grow it at home for use on the farm. It will draw out the worst of the rot and you may cut the rest out with a knife. Can you hold him, Hew?’ Her brother nodded weakly. ‘Then when he comes round we’ll give him a little beef broth. If we clean out the wound you won’t have to bleed him again.’
Giles looked at her now with respect as she laid out her bottles and leaves, trimming a dense clump of moss. She took the open lancet from his hand and set the blade to glow white-hot upon the fire. ‘It must be clean.’
‘I grant you,’ he said, ‘but what of the cramps? He may die after all, in the end.’
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