‘It’s likely that you do.’
There were bequests also for some of Matthew’s servants, and for Nicholas Colp, who remained to look after the library, and immediately embarked upon a catalogue of books. Hew found the servants difficult, puzzled by the maid and her uncertain little courtesies; the darkly sullen deference of the cook. He spent an afternoon with his father’s old steward, the factor, Jock Chirnside, learning the extent of his estates. Chirnside was polite but wary. Most of the properties were let, and he made careful reckoning of the rents. The farmland closest to the house supplied its basic needs, which had been few in latter days. Meg’s gardens, roots and herbs were kept up at her request. Hew was impressed at the depth of his knowledge; he knew all the farmers well, their skills and circumstances. The rents were collected, the monies well stocked. Yet he seemed ill at ease. The reason came apparent when he ventured at the last, ‘Shall you keep on the house, sir?’
Hew wondered this himself. ‘I’m not decided yet.’
The man nodded gloomily. ‘Aye. Only for the men about the farm … tis hard to find work at this time of year. If you should wish to sell, or to manage things yourself …’
Hew realised to his dismay that their lives were linked with his, and that like the house and land, they were left at his disposal. He hastened reassurance, with a sinking heart. ‘You may tell the men that none of them will want for work. Whatever I decide, I will not see them starve.’
‘Tis good of you,’ the man said doubtfully.
‘As for managing the land, I hope that you may stay, as long as I have need of you. For myself, I should hardly know where to begin.’
‘Tis true eno’ that,’ Chirnside agreed.
Hew felt overwhelmed by these responsibilities. He took refuge in the library, where Nicholas was working on his catalogue, perched high on a stool behind a tower of books.
‘I know not how to deal with servants,’ Hew complained. ‘I was not born to this.’
‘In truth though, you were,’ his friend pointed out. He scratched his face with the tip of his pen, and a trickle of grey ink ran down his nose. Absently, he wiped it with his sleeve, setting down the quill. ‘Though if you want advice, I’m not the man to ask, since I am a servant here myself.’
Hew snorted. ‘You, a servant? Has the world gone mad?’ He drew up a chair and flopped into it fretfully, seizing a book from the top of the tower.
‘How goes your catalogue?’
‘It was going well,’ Nicholas said pointedly.
‘Aye? Well and good.’ Hew did not take the hint, flicking idly through the volume he had lifted from the pile. ‘My father possessed some rare books,’ he observed. ‘This is the poem that gave our regent, Master Davidson, so much trouble when its printing caused offence to the earl of Morton. I know not how we come to have a copy.’
‘Aye, all those are controversial,’ Nicholas replied. ‘That is why I picked them out. I wondered whether it would not be politic to miss them altogether from the inventory. Or put them in a different one. What do you think?’
‘Oh, I do not think so. If the list is made in full, then at least I know of what I stand accused,’ Hew answered, more cheerfully. ‘In this little pamphlet, there can be no harm, now that Morton has fallen from grace. Aye, put them in. And let us fill the gaps – Buchanan, for instance, whose philosophies could never please my father, except he did concede the fineness of his Psalms. Dearly, I should like to have his De iure regni. And that I think, would not endear me to the king.’ He glanced through the poem. ‘I cannot think this verse was worth its trouble, to speak truth. But Davidson was a good man, and well missed. Do you recall him having in his class a most prodigious child, James Crichton?’
‘Aye, for sure. That your friend Walkinshaw called the abominable. But he was at St Salvator’s.’
‘That’s the one. He was younger than the rest and braver than the rest and fairer than the rest and brighter than the rest …’
‘… and spoke eleven languages.’
‘You lie, sir. It was twelve. Did I ever tell you that I met him at the College de Navarre? He challenged the professors to a match of wits, on any question they should choose to put to him, in whatsoever tongue, and none of them could best him. It was the talk of France.’
‘That’s marvellous.’
‘Marvellous, indeed. Contentious little shit.’
Nicholas looked faintly shocked. ‘I think you are a little out of sorts today.’
‘I confess it. Out of humour, tedious and vexed,’ Hew confirmed. He tossed the book aside and took another from the pile.
‘It’s hard to make a catalogue while you dislodge the books,’ Nicholas objected mildly.
‘They are dislodged already,’ Hew retorted.
‘It may look so to you, but there is method in it.’
Hew returned the volume, sighing heavily. ‘I am restless, Nicholas. I don’t know what to do.’
‘So I can see.’
Hew began to pace the room, prying into corners, turning over books. At length he came upon a small wooden writing box, and began to leaf through its contents. ‘What’s this?’ He had drawn out a letter, unopened, the seal still intact.
Nicholas looked up again. ‘Oh! I had forgotten that! It arrived some weeks ago, when your father was too ill to read it; so I put it in the writing desk. Then, of course …’
‘He died.’ Hew had cut the seal with his pocketknife, and was frowning at the contents. ‘Here is something strange.’ He read aloud:
We are ready for the work when you may choose to send it,
Your devoted servant, always,
Christian Hall.
‘Christian Hall, the printer,’ he reflected. ‘Aye, it must be that. Here is his mark.’
He showed the page to Nicholas. It was marked with the printer’s device, a black bird in the branches of a tree. Beneath this was a cross, entwined within the letter H.
‘The tree of knowledge, I suppose. But what’s the bird? Some sort of crow or corbie?’
‘Something of the sort,’ Nicholas concurred. He looked uncomfortable.
‘And what is the work? Do you know about this?’
‘I know something of the matter,’ Nicholas confessed. ‘Though I cannot think that in your present humour it will please you.’
‘If it proves a diversion, then it pleases well enough,’ Hew answered lightly. ‘What does it mean?’
‘Your father has for some years now been preparing a book for the press. When he became too frail to hold a pen, he dictated the last words to me, and I transcribed them for him. The manuscript is now complete, and in a closet here in the library.’
‘A book? What sort of a book? Why did I not know about this?’ Hew demanded.
‘He wished to have it kept secret until it was finished. As to the kind of book, it is a legal textbook, based on his account of his old cases, on which he kept most careful notes.’
‘And he did not think to mention this to me?’
‘He trusted me to tell you when the time was ripe,’ Nicholas explained uneasily. ‘And I did not judge it ripe. I fear you will not like it, Hew, for the book is directed to you. It is a treatise from a father to his son, to persuade him in the study of the law. The last words he spoke were a letter that I took down for him.’ Nicholas opened another box, and removed a folded paper, handing to it Hew. Without another word, he went back to his catalogue. The library fell silent, but for the faintest scratching of his pen, as Hew began to read.
My own dear son,
It is many years now since I came to the bar, and since I had to plead my case. My eyes are grown so frail I must ask Nicholas to make my letter for me; that is to say, to act as my scribe, for I am content that the years have not dulled the wit, nor blunted the intent of what I write to you. You will, I know, forgive the breach of confidence, that Nicholas, your friend, whose tribulations you were privy to so recently, must mediate these words. He understands us well.
My d
ear, I write this letter, as I wrote the work to which it is prefaced, to persuade you to the practice of the law. To which I know you are not readily persuaded, yet your natural disposition recommends no better course. You are possessed with wealth and fortune, graced with art and wit. You have lands and books enough to furnish endless lifetimes, were you but content enough like Nicholas to lose yourself in learning, or to play the landed gentleman who struts about the town. Yet I know, my son, that with this pleasant solitude you cannot be content. You have a vigour, a restlessness, that learning cannot satisfy, that has not been requited in your journeys through the world. Your wit demands a keener end. You were born an advocate, and though you will dispute it, I assert that very force of argument must prove it. You will make your case against the fact, most prettily, I know, for it was always so.
When you were the merest child, nor more than four or five, your uncle had a garden wherein you were wont to play, and in it stood a ruby pippin tree, of which he was inordinately proud. You had a fondness for red apples, and he teased you with their promise, that he never did fulfil. He was a greedy man. And as they grew ripe, his apples were harvested, shored against the winter months, baked into puddings, that never were shared. The next year, though, the yield appeared much smaller than before. The apples he had counted as they ripened on the tree were disappearing ere they could be plucked. Your uncle was convinced that someone had been stealing them, and he resolved to keep a closer watch upon that tree. And so it was he found you in his garden underneath the bower, a ruby pippin plump between your hands. Wherefore did he drag you in before me, pippin in your hand, declaring he had caught his apple thief. He held you roughly, that he must have hurt you, yet you did not cry, but set your lip at him, and calmly said he had ‘no proofs of that.’
‘No proofs!’ roared he, ‘Did I not catch you redhand, with the apple in your hand?’
To which you did reply, ‘For that I have the pippin in my hand it does not prove I stole the pippin. Where are your proofs, your witnesses, that say I climbed the tree? Look, it is not bitten.’ And you placed the perfect pippin on the board in front of us.
‘Well then,’ I implored you, ‘if you did not steal the pippin, tell me how it came into your hand.’
You shook your head. ‘I will not,’ you said stubborn, ‘and I need not, sir. For you say, that the burden of the proof rests with the prosecution. Wherefore, let my uncle prove he saw me take the fruit.’
Your uncle was enraged, yet I confess, the boldness of your answer pleased me well. I doubt that some will say I have been lax in my affections, that I have always given audience to your pleas; but I have known you, always, to be most skilled in disputations, most alert and suited to the law. Wherefore you were put to school, and to the university, where you excelled in argument.
And yet, while from childhood were apparent your skills in disputation, I saw another side to your character, which did appear at odds with them. You had more depth of feeling than your friends; cruelties that were commonplace did haunt you. You were prone to nightmares, you saw horrors everywhere. I sensed in you a real and human sympathy, a kindness, wherefore I did shelter and indulge you, and your education cloistered you. You were not prepared, perhaps, to follow through the rigours of the law, its bluntness, its relentlessness. When your skills were called upon, you felt too deep the harshness and injustice of this world, and vowed to turn your back on your vocation. You condemned the law, that it might fail an honest man. And the horrors and injustice that the world inflicts, you blame upon the law, that was designed to right them.
In this you are mistaken. You may reconcile your scruples, and serve the better for them, in the role of advocate. Therefore I commend my book, and dedicate to you, my dear beloved son, my own defence of law, in hope that as you read it, you may find your place. Know that each account is drawn from cases close to me, dearest to my conscience, closest to my heart.
Hew folded up the letter and glanced across at Nicholas, who stared down at his page. Hew cleared his throat. ‘This story of the pippin is mere stuff and sentiment,’ he said at last.
‘For sure,’ murmured Nicholas. ‘I took no notice of it, and in truth, I have forgotten it.’
‘It is an old man’s foolishness, and since it is a trick, to play on my affections, I may disregard it.’
‘Aye, for sure.’
Hew began unfolding and folding up the paper, and at last he blurted out, ‘Is it churlish to be angry with a dead man, do you think? Because he has died, and has had the last word?’
Nicholas put down his pen. Though his friend spoke lightly, he saw the real hurt behind it, and he answered sympathetically. ‘Though it may not be reasonable, yet it may be understood. What will you do with the manuscript? Will you have it printed?’
‘I know not. I suppose that I must see it.’
Nicholas nodded and produced a key that opened up the closet. Evidently, Matthew had construed his book to be a precious thing. It was written in a score or more folded tablebooks, each of twenty sheets, the whole thing comprising a very large volume of closely wrought text. The title page read ‘In Defence of the Law.’
‘The last part I transcribed,’ Nicholas was saying, ‘but I have not read the rest. The principle, I understand, was to explain the criminal and civil courts, by means of illustration, to illuminate and show the process of the law.’
Hew opened a page at random. ‘On Spuilzie, that is commonly a crime against the person, notwithstanding which, in divers cases criminal I do recall …’ He closed the book again. ‘Ah, no. For I am done with spuilzie, and the rest. It is a law they do not have in France, that is the better for it.’
‘No doubt there is another in its place,’ suggested Nicholas.
‘Oh aye, for sure. I am done with them all. I can see no sense in it,’ Hew continued, setting down the manuscript. ‘Why would he want to put it in a book?’
‘That is plain enough. Your father missed the law. He relinquished it too soon, and in his prime. His heart remained with his old cases, and it pleased him to remember it. In my poor way, I feel the same, for while I cannot teach, I while away the hours in writing texts I hope may serve the grammar school. And I have dreamt of a treatise on Ramus,’ Nicholas added wistfully, ‘that I would call, The Ram’s Horn, though I could never hope to see it through the press.’
‘I can see the point of that. But not of this.’
‘It has its purpose too, for students of the law.’
‘For the education, I infer, of one student in particular,’ Hew concluded grimly.
‘The letter to you was not meant for the press. There is nothing in the manuscript that refers to you. It is merely a textbook.’
‘Then for that I must be grateful. But why was he intent on publication? I cannot think that any good will come of it. And the press is not without risk.’
‘There is nothing in a law book to offend,’ Nicholas demurred. ‘And since it is contracted, then no doubt it has already passed the censor. This is a textbook, for sure, that has no sinister intent.’
‘I must take your word for it, or else be forced to read it,’ Hew said dryly. ‘I may be my father’s instrument, and take it to the press, but rest assured I shall not be converted by his argument. Look how crabbed the letter is! How could he write so small?’
‘Crow feather quills.’
‘That wretched bird! My father has invested a small fortune in this press. I cannot think, that if he undertook to pay the whole cost of the printing of the book himself, it could cost so much. Do we have any books that bear this mark – a cross, no doubt for Christian, and H, for the Hall? I know not what might signify the crow.’
Nicholas shook his head. ‘I have taken note of printers’ marks in making up the catalogue. And I do not recognise this.’
‘All that money paid, and not a book to show for it. It is a mystery.’
‘The bird is a raven, perhaps; that signifies wisdom,’ Nicholas suggested.
‘I
n whose philosophy? The owl is wisdom, that’s Minerva,’ Hew retorted, ‘but the corbie, beyond doubt, is an ill-begotten bird.’
* According to the old style, Julian calendar. In Scotland, the new year began on March 25 until 1600; 1599 was a nine-month year.
The Senzie Fair
April broke fair, the bitter sheets of wind collapsing in the sunshine, and the grey slush and mud were dissolved into spring. Walking to St Andrews in the first week after Easter, Hew found himself among a throng of people. The track was worn smooth by the rumble of carts. ‘Where is everyone going?’ he asked a young farmhand.
‘Why, the senzie fair!’ The boy stared in astonishment.
‘I had forgotten. Aye, of course.’
The senzie was the largest of the annual fairs and markets, lasting fifteen days. Coming to the market as a boy, Hew had thought it was the fair for sinners, with its open brawls and squabbling and its powder courts and thieves. His father had explained that it was named after the synod house, and for the place the bishops once had held their council, in the cloisters of the abbey where the fair was held. For sinners after all, then, Hew concluded privately. The fair had marked the end of winter and the final surfeit of the lean dark days of Lent. A thousand foreign merchants opened up the world, far beyond the cloisters of the little town. Hew had heard the pipers piping in the crowds, watched the fights and races on the green, and had his fill of sweets and gilded gingerbread. There were jugglers and tumblers, and once a small monkey, a sad little death’s-head, hiding its face in a green velvet coat.
It felt strange now to be coming in a crowd, and as they came towards the bay he broke away, crossing the burn a little downstream and avoiding the vast fleet of ships that were tethered in the harbour, stretching out to sea. He approached from the south, and crossing to the west port away from the fair he made his way up to the Swallowgait, and on to the Castlegait, where Giles and Meg had taken a house. His sister welcomed him, and showed him round the upper rooms, two or three large chambers, with a kitchen to the rear, where the familiar savour of her cooking warmed and cheered the hearth.
Fate and Fortune Page 4