Hue and Cry

by Shirley McKay

  Giles stared at him a moment. At length he said, ‘God knows, I love you, Hew, but you have strange ideas. Now, listen, here are instructions for correcting faults in horses, just like yours.’

  He thumbed through the leaves of a book. ‘Here’s one: “To remedy a horse that rears up its head when corrected for faults with a blow to the head with a stick.”’

  ‘Aye, here’s one,’ interjected Hew. ‘Don’t hit its head with a stick.’

  ‘Aye, that would serve,’ allowed Giles. ‘Now, this is your horse: “To remedy a horse that stops short when tired, and will not walk on in spite of correction . . .” oh, this is no good!’ He frowned as he read, ‘For even if it were not cruel, I should hardly call it practical.’

  ‘What is it?’ Hew looked up in interest.

  ‘“Have a man put a flame to its posteriors.” No, that won’t do at all,’ Giles declared judiciously. ‘For first, as I admit it does seem somewhat cruel . . .’

  ‘If a flame were put to your posteriors, I dare say even you would run fair like the wind,’ Hew put in unkindly. Giles chose to ignore him.

  ‘. . . and for second, it would not be thought expedient to have a man beside you all the way to Kenly Green, his torch forever blowing out. I see that you are right. We must move on to the practice. Hold his head still, Hew, for I intend to mount him.’

  ‘Mount him?’ Hew echoed faintly.

  ‘Aye. You have made him too soft. We must show him who’s in charge. Though I confess, it is a while since I was on a horse. Should I run and vault him, do you think?’

  ‘Ah, perhaps not,’ Hew answered hastily. Let me lead him to the rocks where you may find a vantage point.’

  He held the horse steady, shielding its eyes from the onslaught about to descend on its back. At the third or fourth heave Giles arrived in the saddle. To Dun Scottis’ credit he did not buckle or sag. Giles straightened up, looking pleased. He motioned to Hew to pass him the books, and held them open in his lap, balancing the spectacles on his bridge of his nose. He had to screw up his face somewhat to keep them in place. With his left hand he took up the rein, and in the sternest of tones instructed the horse to walk on. Dun Scottis embarked on a delicate trot. Then, without warning, he slid to the ground and lay on his belly, his head sinking low to the sand. For a moment, Hew thought Giles had broken him, quite literally. His friend did not dismount, but seeming perplexed, freed his boots from the stirrups and planted his feet on the ground.

  ‘Get off him!’ Hew hissed. But Giles did not heed. He lifted his heels and drove them full hard into the flank on either side of the horse. Perhaps he had forgotten the spurs. Dun Scottis roared. He reared not his head but the whole of his self, with effortless strength tipping Giles from his back and over the roll of the saddle, boots flailing deep in the sand. The horn-rimmed spectacles flew in a graceful arc into a clump of seaweed. And Dun Scottis kicked up a billow of dust and fled down the beach with the wind in his hair, as though someone had set a white flame on his tail.

  Giles sat up cautiously, spitting out sand.

  ‘It’s a fine enough day still,’ he ventured, ‘Perhaps a short walk by the shore?’

  They followed the trail as far as the pier, where the hoofprints disappeared into the sea. ‘Do you think he could have swum across the water?’ Giles asked, perplexed.

  ‘Anything is possible. Let us walk back as far as the cliffs and come up to the harbour from the south, for then we cannot miss him. There is nowhere else to go.’

  They traced their steps back to the edge of the bay and the coarse clumps of seagrass known as the bents, but there was no sign of Dun Scottis nuzzling in the reeds. Giles was crestfallen.

  ‘I fear he has been stolen.’

  ‘Well and good, if he has,’ muttered Hew. ‘But rest assured, if he is stolen, he will likely be returned. Come, we will walk up the Kirk Heugh and look down from there, where we are sure to see him. He cannot be far away.’

  They climbed the stone steps that led from the harbour towards the cathedral, to the old kirk of St Mary that stood on the rock, and from that vantage point looked back down to the bay. Beyond the tall masts of the ships and wide flanks of the fishing boats the beach was empty. Only the foaming white waves reared and bucked, as if they had swallowed him whole. Giles lowered himself gingerly onto the grass and shook the sand out of his boots. Hew felt a little sorry for him. He suspected he was bruised. ‘Well, it can’t be helped,’ Hew told him philosophically. ‘We should be going home.’ He helped Giles to his feet, for he was moving stiffly now, and further up the hill towards the Castlegait. At the entrance to the castle was a dewy clump of grass, and there they found the dun horse Scottis, like an old and faithful soldier, standing sleek and salty from the sea.

  ‘However did he get there?’ Giles cried in astonishment. He rubbed himself reproachfully. ‘Surely he could not have climbed the cliff!’

  Hew returned home in the late afternoon, Dun Scottis trotting meekly as a lamb. He found Meg in the garden, gathering armfuls of white-rooted flowers. He watched her as she carried them, back and forth, into a small stone outhouse, where presently he followed her inside, and leant against the door. She paid him little notice, binding tight the bundles on the stone and slicing through the roots. The walls were lined with jars and the air savoured earthy and dry.

  At last she whispered, ‘Father told you?’

  ‘Aye. It does not matter, Meg,’ he reassured her.

  ‘How is Nicholas?’

  ‘He’s still alive, at least. Giles is looking after him.’

  ‘You did not tell Giles about the falling ill?’ Meg answered anxiously.

  ‘I did not, for you did not wish it. But,’ he hesitated, ‘if you chose to tell him, he would understand.’

  She shook her head. ‘Aye, I know. But all the same, I will not tell him. I cannot explain.’

  ‘Then you need not,’ he said gently.

  ‘Can you pass the pocket knife?’ She changed the subject quickly. ‘It has fallen off the wall.’

  She sliced into the seedheads, shaking loose the grain, and cupped a shallow palmful in her hand. ‘Carrot seed,’ she answered him before he spoke. ‘The flowers and leaves distilled into a water cure the dropsy and the gout, which may prove beneficial to our father. This has flowered late. The seeds are most effective. This central flower,’ she plucked it out, ‘is said to fend away the falling sickness. It’s pretty, don’t you think?’

  ‘I thought it might be hemlock,’ he observed.

  ‘Side by side, they are not easily mistakable. The root is similar, and both taste sharp and pungent, which is fortunate, perhaps. Hemlock has a purple spotted stem, and its leaves and stem are smooth, unlike the feathers on these.’ She touched her fingers to the plant. ‘Look, these are almost like hairs.’

  ‘What of the seed?’ he questioned.

  ‘One seed is very like another. I have use for both, and so I keep them well apart. This,’ she took down a small jar from the shelf and spilled out the seed in her palm, ‘is spotted hemlock. And it has to last until the spring.’

  ‘Won’t it grow in winter?’

  ‘Aye, but it becomes more deadly as the year goes on. In the young plant the poison distils in the leaf and the seed, and does not reach the root, but as the year goes on the strength intensifies until the whole plant becomes deadly and the leaves and seed are most poisonous of all. Once it has seeded I cut down the foliage and burn off the root. The rabbits forage here in winter-time. It is a quiet death, but death nonetheless. The dried parts are less potent. Is Nicholas awake?’ she asked.

  ‘Not yet. He has a coldness and a pallor, and his face is swollen and discoloured like a drowned man’s. Giles says he bit through his tongue.’

  ‘Then the paralysis is passed, which is a good thing. But the spasms may return. And still he has not woken?’

  ‘I have seen no sign of it.’

  ‘Then the sickness must be grave.’

  ‘I fear it, but Gile
s appears sanguine still. It is unlike him,’ Hew remarked.

  ‘He’s a good man,’ Meg said simply.

  ‘Aye, he is.’ He grinned suddenly. ‘And I confess I have misused him. If you have liniments, spare him a pot, and he may return your regard.’

  ‘Why, is he hurt?’ Meg looked alarmed.

  ‘He has a bruising to his pride, and a stiffness in the fundament,’ he smiled.

  He watched her strip the stalks and hang the herbs to dry. At length he said more seriously, ‘I had thought hemlock an incontrovertible poison.’

  ‘Aye, if it’s fresh.’

  ‘There is something . . .’ he hesitated, ‘something come into my mind when I was looking down at Nicholas, and I cannot quite assuage it. It is what Plato said of Socrates. That when he had drunk of the hemlock a stiffness and coldness passed gradually over his body, but that at the last he was able to speak, being quite sensible and quiet in his thoughts.’

  Meg nodded. ‘It might well be so. Who are Socrates and Plato?’

  ‘Ancients, tis no matter, Meg. But when I was looking at Nicholas, it struck me, suppose that he were sensible still in his mind, though his body should not be responsive, and he heard, and saw and felt, but could not speak and move, what horror would that be, Meg, such a Hell.’

  Meg was silent a moment. Then she said, ‘it would be.’

  ‘You have eaten of the herb,’ persisted Hew, ‘can you not know?’

  She shook her head. ‘It calms and stops the spasms in my limbs, but when I am awake I don’t remember. If I am sensible sleeping, I am senseless of it waking. And as for Nicholas, I cannot think him sensible. Do not imagine it.’

  ‘I have tried not to. But he is sensible still in my mind.’ He smiled foolishly. ‘Well then, you should know I have made arrangement for your lodging with our cousins. They were glad of it, for Robin’s ship is about to sail.’

  ‘Father told me,’ she said flatly. ‘I have said goodbye to him. The carrot now,’ she changed the subject, ‘there is goodness in the root, though it’s too sharp to eat.’

  ‘Not quite goodbye,’ insisted Hew. ‘It’s an hour’s walk, scarcely that, from Father’s door to Flett’s. Or two hours,’ he tried coaxing her to smile, ‘if you take my horse.’

  She shook her head. ‘My father does not mean me to come home again.’

  ‘He has not said so,’ he objected.

  ‘No.’ She gave a watery smile, ‘I know him, Hew. He means to die. He would not send me else.’

  Meg packed a few possessions while her father fussed relentlessly. For Lucy, she prepared a sour-milk cheese, a poke of pippins and a dish of hedgerow jellies dark as blood.

  ‘She is pretty, and spoilt,’ Hew had replied to her question, ‘and I fear will be a trial to you.’

  ‘Meg will bear it bravely,’ Matthew countered, ‘will you not?’

  ‘You did not tell me,’ Hew went on, ‘my cousin Flett had business shares with Gilbert Strachan.’

  ‘Truly? For I did not know it. We keep ourselves close from the world. Yet it does not surprise me. As I understand it, the shipmen and merchants are most intimate together, and share their lives and business very close. Theirs is not a world that I am well acquainted with. Then it may serve your purpose well for Meg to lodge there.’

  ‘I think it may be more convenient than I’d thought.’ Hew glanced at Meg. ‘Robin Flett desires to sever the connection between his family and the weaver’s, but his wife is keener to advance it. Meg can work on that while he’s away.’

  ‘Why does Robin wish to drop them?’ wondered Meg.

  ‘If he is to be believed, in deference to his friend and partner Gilbert, who no longer favours his brother, and to protect his wife from immoralities in Archie Strachan’s house.’

  Matthew Cullan frowned.

  ‘But I believe,’ his son continued smoothly, ‘it’s the twist in Archie’s fortunes that provokes his change of feeling. Robin Flett is most conscious of person and place.’

  ‘You do not persuade me to like him,’ said Meg.

  ‘Indeed, I am persuaded that you will not like him,’ answered Hew, ‘brought up as you have been,’ he shot a dry look at his father, ‘without a sense of the most proper improprieties.’

  Matthew feigned offence. ‘Your sister is most moral in her judgements.’

  ‘Aye. She does not prejudge, which I allow will serve her here. But put simply, I need her to make friends with Strachan’s wife and daughter, on whatever count she can. For according to Robin Flett, it is Agnes Ford the weaver’s wife, who is the witness for the Crown and upon whom rests the case. She has sworn, one, that to her knowledge Nicholas and Alexander were unnaturally enamoured of each other; two, that she was witness to the letters Alexander sent him; three that Nicholas knew where to find his body; and four, most singular, that the dyer intimated to her his suspicions of the crime. Her evidence has sealed his fate.’

  ‘Truly, it would seem so,’ Matthew said. ‘I can see but three alternatives.’

  ‘What are they?’ questioned Meg. But it was Hew who answered.

  ‘There are four. The first, she is telling the truth. The second, she tells partly the truth. The third, she is mistaken, but believes she tells the truth. The fourth and most contentious, that she lies.’

  It proved an uncomfortable ride into town. Meg wanted to walk, and since Hew had been warned that she must not be tired, he had no choice but to lift her onto the mat of hair behind him on the horse, where she raged and glowered at him, ‘you do not need to treat me like a pot. I will not break.’ Dun Scottis, for his part, was stubborn and recalcitrant.

  Also, Hew had argued with his father over Robin Flett. ‘My cousin has agreed the terms,’ he reported stiffly.

  Matthew grinned. ‘I thought he might.’

  ‘Aye?’ The lawyer in Hew spoke. ‘What terms were those?’

  ‘The terms need not concern you.’

  ‘You have sold her, have you not?’

  The old man sighed. At length he answered wearily. ‘The contrary, my child. You have talked with Robin Flett. You do not think he takes her, with her cruel affliction, out of simple charity? He came to me some time ago with a proposal: he wants another ship, something for his children. Meg requires a home. If she were married, she should have a dowry. But with none to wed her . . . well, it’s done. Robin Flett shall have the money for his ship. It is her settlement.’

  ‘Then you have deceived me,’ Hew accused him. ‘I would not have gone to him so willingly if I had known. Her settlement! What’s left to her?’

  ‘Protection, Hew. She cannot live alone when I have gone.’

  ‘But there are servants, surely.’

  ‘Servants talk. And with her herbs and potions, with the falland ill, she would be suspected. A sheep or a cow, perhaps a child, would happen to fall sick. And then the day would come when they would come for her. The world is cruel. I have influence and money still, and I may pay for her protection, yet I cannot leave that influence to her when I am gone.’

  ‘I could have protected her,’ his son protested.

  Matthew shook his head. ‘I cannot see you well content to stay here all your days. She must have peace and constancy. It would not suit you.’

  ‘I would have found a way,’ Hew answered stubbornly.

  ‘Whisht, I know your heart. You must know mine. She shall be settled there.’

  Holy Trinity

  At the second bell, the minister set down his bible and yawned. He had an hour to learn his sermon by heart, not that he needed it. He had read the same lesson for more than six weeks. All that remained was to review the minutes of the last kirk session and put its recommendations into practice. This involved inserting a fresh string of names into the weekly schedule of rebukes. The transgressors bowed their heads before him in monotonous succession, unruly bairns, the lot of them. There was little variation in their sins.

  He unfolded the paper and consulted it thoughtfully. It had been a particula
rly acrimonious meeting. To begin with, they had had to elect a new elder to replace the poor dead dyer, and against his better instincts he had appointed Thomas Brooke the baxter, who was equally assiduous. The minister was a kindly man at heart. He disliked the starker cruelties of his church.

  ‘The session met,’ he read aloud, ‘to discuss the scandalous carriage of the weaver’s apprentice Tom Begbie with Katrin Fyffe, the drover’s daughter. Tom Begbie was called and confessed to antenuptial fornication. He found caution to submit to discipline, as it might please the kirk. He was disposed to marry her.’

  But the matter had proved harder to resolve. The weaver Archie Strachan had given evidence that his apprentice was precontracted, (chastely, he assured them) to Isabel his daughter and therefore was not free to marry Katrin. Moreover, he stated that if Tom married Katrin it would break the terms of his apprenticeship. Archie would dismiss him and the couple would be destitute. This had left the kirk session with a vexing dilemma. If the pair were married, as their sin demanded, then they would have no means of support. And if a child were born, it would fall upon the parish to look after it, at considerable expense. The court had then turned its attention to Katrin. It was discovered that the drover’s cottage fell between two parishes, the ministry of each of which assumed them faithful to the other. There was a strong argument, forcefully put by Tam Brooke the baxter, to give up the lass and focus their wrath upon Tom. The minister could not assent. He felt it fell to him, no matter what the cost, to recall the lost sheep to his fold. So he had proposed a more radical solution. Both Katrin and her father should be brought before the session to explain themselves. Katrin would do penance for her antenuptial fornication and would be forced to marry Tom. The sheep would be shorn, atoning for their sins, and would share in the Lord’s supper once again, assured of their salvation. If the parish had to raise a child, then it was worth the cost. But his plans had been thwarted, for someone forewarned them. When the kirk officers arrived at the hovel to make their arrest they found it deserted. Of the drover and his daughter, and their few fragments of possessions, there was nothing to be found.