‘I don’t suppose you have the trunk hose still?’ he ventured shyly.
Jonet shook her head. ‘Brekis like that were no built for the wattir. And when your brave horse harled you up upon the rocks, your clothes were cut to shreds. Be thankful that they served their turn, and saved you from a deeper hurt. What was left was only fit for scraps.’
And all the ferry lasses, realised Hew, were wearing little strips of him, as laces on their gowns and ribbons in their hair. No doubt his boots and saddle bag had found another home. He had been picked over, and properly stripped, before Jonet and her man had taken pity on him, and had brought him in. Or else, they had merely come late, to all that was left.
But Jonet cut through these thoughts, with a kindness that made him ashamed, handing him a pair of woollen breeks. ‘These will fit. They were my son’s. And you are very like him in your look. That is his shirt you wear. It suits you well.’
Hew buttoned up the breeches, a little more assured once safely dressed, though he had no points or doublet to secure them to his shirt.
‘I think there was a jacket,’ Jonet murmured. She gazed at him a moment as she rummaged through a kist. ‘You are like him, though.’
‘Then I thank him for his clothes.’
‘He will not want them, where he lies. He has been dead these twenty years.’
‘Madam, I am so very sorry,’ Hew told her earnestly.
She threw off his pity, shaking her head. ‘He drooned in that same stretch of wattir, where you tipped from your boat. When Sandy saw you lying on the shore …’ Jonet let the sentence hang, concluding fiercely, ‘They are rogues and swingeours, all, and they would have had your horse, if Sandy had not stopped them. He could not save the rest. Except,’ she pointed to the rafters, ‘he found a sack still wrapped around your back. And you were clutching it so tight, he said, he had an unco’ task to pull it off. There were papers inside, that we hung up to dry.’
Hanging from the mast Hew saw his leather backpack, battered by the tides. The sheets of sodden washing were his father’s manuscript, whose dripping outer edges had begun to fuse and blur. Inexplicably, he felt the prick of tears.
‘Some of the papers were turned into pap,’ Jonet went on, ‘and could not be saved. But these had been wrapped in a clout, and Sandy thought it best to hang them out.’
‘Madam,’ Hew said, overcome, ‘I know not how to thank you, or your husband. My father made that book. And though those salvaged pages may be nothing worth, they are worth the world to me, and I had not realised it. I shall be forever in your debt.’
Embarrassed, she brushed this aside. ‘Whisht, son, with your madams and your thank yous and your bonny flatterings! What daftness, to be sure! You’re as saft as a bairn, and quent as your dun horse. I doubt you want the proudness of your birth, or else you lost it in the wattir with your clathes. There is no debt. For what, wee bits of paper? It is your proper life you should give thanks for, and for that to God, and not to us. Now that you are well, Sandy will give you passage to the south side. Only do not mention, what I said about our son. It is an auld wife’s fancy, and it does not want repeating. For the truth is Sandy cannot bear to think of Johnnie, so we never speak of him.’
‘You never speak of it,’ repeated Hew, ‘after twenty years?’
‘It is how it is,’ said Jonet simply. ‘Sandy took it hard, and he does not care to greet.’
‘And yet you kept his clothes.’
Jonet forced a smile. ‘I kept them far too long. Tis brave enough, to see them now, upon a living back.’
Hew began to gather up the manuscript. He folded the dried pages back inside their cloth and placed them in his sack. He said nothing else, for he could not find the words.
The ferryman proved as kind as his wife, allowing Hew free passage to the other side. He walked with him into South Queensferrie, pointing out the road to Cramond. ‘It is a hard trek, for a man that is used to a horse. I can give you bread and ale enough, to last you through the day, but more than that, I fear I cannot help you. I am richt sorry you were tret so badly at North Ferrie.’
‘In truth, I could not have met with greater kindness,’ Hew protested. ‘When I return for my horse, I will make good the debt.’
The ferryman looked pleased. ‘There is no debt to us, son. You are more than welcome. I ask you, if you do come back, to call on Jonet. She has taken to you, and your passing through has brought a gladness to her heart. She will not have telt you this, for she never speaks of him, but you are the blessed image of our boy that died. You will forgive my saying,’ he concluded anxiously, ‘for you are a gentleman, and Johnnie was a boatman’s son, and all.’
Hew ignored this last. ‘You say she never speaks of him?’ he queried.
‘Aye, she is stubborn that way. For almost twenty years, she has not said his name. I sometimes think … no matter, then,’ the old man broke abruptly. ‘If you will shake my hand, I’ll wish you better fortune, sir, and see you on your way.’
The last ten miles into Edinburgh were more arduous than Hew had imagined. The track was steep and sodden, and he soon grew hot and tired. The stone drinking bottle leaked in his sack, its stopper no more than a wedge of damp rag, and his father’s manuscript, so newly dried, again became sticky and stained. He refilled the bottle as he walked, drinking from the river and the burns. He was partially dressed, in jerkin, shirt and breeks, for Johnnie had possessed no nether hose. His legs were bruised and scratched, where Dun Scottis had dragged him over the rocks, and the reins had left cuts to his wrists. His borrowed shoes were small and tight, and his thigh throbbed stiff and sore from the horse’s flailing hoof. He found the going hard. But at last he came to the Dene, and to the village of the Water of Leith, where the river ran fast and the mills ground the corn for the town. From here he could see the town itself, the castle on its crag and the high crown of the kirk, a spine of spires and rooftops falling to the east, its long tail flicking backwards to the hills. It seemed, to Hew’s tired eyes, like the fair enchanted city of a traveller’s tale. A north easterly wind from the estuary at Leith soon blew the notion clear, bringing with it waves of that delicate effluvium, the foul and foetid perfume of Nor’ Loch.
Skirting the north loch, Hew continued south until he came below the castle through the west port in the Flodden wall. Outside this wall, a settlement had sprung to serve the town, like followers of camp beyond the battlefield, a hotchpotch of inns and small country gardens, stables and breweries, potters and craftsmen. Since they were not free to trade from buiths in town, they sold their wares at the landmarket, and Hew entered Edinburgh in the middle of a crowd, stacked high with baskets and crates. A young lass drove a flock of geese, that scattered like musket shot into the grassmarket. In the midst of this commotion, Hew was not questioned at the gate. He climbed the crooked west bow to the high street. And passing through the over bow, triumphal arch of kings, he came at last to the place he had known as a boy. For a moment, he stood dizzy by the butter tron, where the lawnmarket met castle hill. He had forgotten the exuberance, the noise and dirt and sweat, of market day. All directions seemed to chime, from the hoarse cries of the hawkers to the barking of the geese, from the ringing of the smiths to the hammering of timmermen, to the bleating of stray lambs and the squawk of flustered hens. Hew leant back against the wall. As he drew his breath he heard a tiny tinkling in the midst of the cacophony, and saw a silver penny drop beside him, rolling to a standstill in the dust. The coin was a half-merk, a good pint of claret and six wheaten loaves. He bent to pick it up, looking round to see who had dropped it.
‘You, man, show up your token!’
Two men were approaching, councillors perhaps, appointed to oversee trade. One of them carried a long wooden measure or stick.
Misunderstanding, Hew held out the coin. ‘Is this yours?’ he offered politely.
The bailies exchanged cunning glances. The shorter of the two, who, by way of compensation, had the stick, held up the stout badge of his office.
It was clear that he meant to have the full measure of Hew. Hew felt his spirits drain. ‘Good sirs, what are your names?’ he asked them with a sigh.
The taller man replied, ‘Thomas and I will be asking the questions,’ which at least went some way to an answer, and Thomas glanced at his friend with a faint air of reproach before he resumed the attack. ‘Where is your licence to beg?’
Hew felt himself flush. ‘You misunderstand, sir,’ he told his inquisitor stiffly. ‘I am no beggar.’
‘Ah,’ the burgess smiled unpleasantly, ‘then you did not pick up that penny we saw.’
‘No … or rather, aye, I did. I did not mean to keep it.’
‘He did not mean to keep it,’ the squat inquisitor confided to his friend. ‘What say you then, we let it pass?’ His companion gave this some thought.
‘Well now, he speaks well,’ he conceded at last. ‘Perhaps he can make good account. Where are you from, friend?’ he said encouragingly to Hew. ‘Where is your parish?’
Hew sighed conspicuously. But he had met officious types before, and knew that to refuse to answer would prolong a painful process.
‘My name is Hew Cullan, lately of the parish of St Leonard’s in St Andrews. I was born here, in the town. My father was an advocate, and I count myself a gentleman,’ he stated bluntly.
The short bailie snorted. ‘Ah, do you indeed! Then have you not looked in the glass?’
‘I met with an accident,’ Hew explained lamely. He began to see himself as Thomas and his tall friend saw him. The boatman’s clothes were worn and old, and though he had a shirt and breeks, the very least that decency required, he had no nether hose or proper coat. He had abandoned the boatman’s boots at Leith water, when the hobnails had worked through the soles. His legs were bare and bruised below the boatman’s britches, and his hair had not been combed since its dipping in the Forth. Worst of all, he had no hat; his plum-coloured cap, with its ostrich feather trim, lay sodden at the bottom of the estuary. In a last stubborn showing of pride, he had refused to accept the blue bonnet. And so he had come into the capital, bare-headed as the daftest loun, expecting to be greeted as a lord.
The milder of his twin inquisitors tugged at his colleague’s sleeve. ‘Tis possible,’ he whispered, sotto voce, ‘from his manner and his speech, that he may be a gentleman, but fallen on hard times. But think you, could he not be fugitive from justice? He has the look of one who has been freshly whipped.’
Thomas subjected Hew to closer scrutiny. ‘Aye,’ he said judiciously, ‘or else the look of one who should be freshly whipped.’
Hew answered wearily, ‘I was capsized at the ferry, where I have lost my clothes and papers. That is my misfortune, not my crime.’
‘There has been no report,’ the kinder bailie murmured, ‘of the ferry boat capsizing.’
‘It was not the ferry,’ Hew began to answer. Then he saw the hopelessness, and fell silent.
‘I am come on business, with a commission to the printer, Christian Hall,’ he explained at last.
‘On whose behalf?’
‘My own.’ Hew tugged at his scrip. ‘I have a manuscript here for the printer.’
‘And that survived the shipwreck?’ Thomas winked to his friend.
‘Miraculously, it did,’ Hew answered shortly. ‘The press belongs to my father.’
‘Is that so?’ The tall man rubbed his beard. ‘You know Christian Hall. Did you ken a man called Cullan owned the press?’ he asked his fellow doubtfully.
‘I never heard of such. Then Christian Hall will vouch for you?’ the squat man questioned Hew.
‘He will vouch for the book. Though I confess that he does not expect me.’
Whatever he had said, he said it all, for the bailies exchanged subtle glances, which Hew could not read, and each laid a hand on his arm.
‘We will see this settled at the tolbooth,’ Thomas said emphatically.
They did not turn, as Hew expected, to the southern corner of St Giles, but marched him to the tower of the worn and ancient tolbooth, rising gloomily to choke the narrow street. Thomas hammered loudly on the turnkey’s door.
‘Wait,’ Hew cried desperately, ‘there is one here who can vouch for me. The advocate, Richard Cunningham.’
‘Oh, aye?’ Thomas smirked. ‘Right enough. He kens Richard Cunningham,’ he confided to his friend.
‘Then he is the devil, and a rogue beyond a doubt. There’s many men that cry upon that name before they swing,’ the tall man winked at Hew. ‘I’m afraid you can’t afford him. Master Cunningham does not consort with beggars. Though he has met enough thieves, in his time.’ He rapped sharply once more on the door, and the gudeman appeared, gently grumbling, swinging a great bunch of keys. Hew looked around for a means of escape. A small crowd had gathered, all of them strangers: their interest ranged from scornful curiosity to fierce and frank contempt. They left no open passage to the kirk.
‘Aye, what is it now?’ The gudeman groaned. ‘Will I have no peace today?’
‘Here’s a beggar for you, Robert,’ Thomas answered cheerfully. ‘Put him in the ironhouse.’
The gudeman gazed at Hew, sad-eyed, and shook his head. ‘That is not the place, as ye well ken. Besides, the tinklar and her bairns are in the ironhouse. Since she is a woman, it would not be fit.’
‘What, man! The Egyptian! Were ye no telt to put her in the thieves’ hole?’ Thomas expostulated. ‘She’s a vagrant and a thief, and like as not a whore.’
‘Aye, but for the bairns,’ the gudeman answered lamely. ‘For they are but bairns, and the hole is awfy dark.’
‘In truth, I have no patience with your saftness, Robert! The hole is awfy dark! Tis dark enough where they are going, and the bairns had best get used to it. The lord Sinclair his man has set his claim on them.’
Hew interrupted, with a sudden rush of dread, ‘Where are they to go to, that must be so dark?’
Thomas ignored him. ‘Then put him in the thieves’ hole, since the whore is in the iron house,’ he iterated heavily, ‘it cannot be hard to work out.’
Hew reached out to grasp the gudeman’s sleeve. ‘You cannot let them do this,’ he pleaded. ‘For pity sir, I beg you.’ The gudeman shook him off, as mildly as he might blow off a fly. ‘Now do not fash. And do not fight it, sir. For if you cross these gentlemen tis likely you will hang, and that I should truly be sorry to see.’
‘Aye, so he would,’ the tall man endorsed this. ‘The gudeman is unco kind-hearted. He hates to see anyone hang.’
The gudeman of the tolbooth deftly turned Hew’s wrists behind his back with a strength and force that belied this gentleness, and held them firm in the grasp of one hand as he felt for his keys. ‘Now son, if you will not settle quietly I will have to chain you hand and feet, and you would not care for that, I doubt, your hands and feet so sore,’ he advised.
Hew tried to twist back to face him, but the gaoler’s bulk behind him at his back pushed him forward to the door. ‘Look, now! There are steps.’ He felt the outside world disintegrate; the bustle of the market and the crying of the cramers receding with the sunlight as he stumbled on the stair. If Thomas and his friend remained above, they had become irrelevant, displaced by the rattling of the gudeman and his keys. His calm and placid lordship of this place entirely his allowed no trace of hope. He would be sorry, aye, beyond a doubt, to see Hew hang. He pitied and kept watch with a cool and sad complacency more chilling than the bailies’ thirst for blood. At the foot of the steps, a second door was opening, and Hew knew that once behind it the last vestige of light from the street would be gone. He clung to the gudeman.
‘For pity, do not leave me here.’
The gudeman loosened his fingers and propelled him through the door. ‘I maun see to they bairns, and then I will come back to you,’ he intoned kindly. ‘You have no money, I suppose? For drink or aught?’
Hew shook his head. Though the gudeman could hardly have seen it in the darkness, he interpreted the silence, for he answered, �
��You may have oatbread, and water to drink, God willing, and grace of the baxter, for the bailies are right slow to pay their dues.’ The gaoler heaved a solemn sigh. ‘I’ll see what I can do. They are fixed on one of their purges, of Egyptians and strong beggars and the like, and not a care to who will pay the gudeman for their keep. When the tinklar wifie hangs, there may be bread to spare.’
‘Is she to hang, then?’ Hew pressed him. Though he did not want the answer, he was keen to keep the gudeman talking, to prolong the moment till the last door closed.
‘Aye,’ the gaoler regarded him curiously, ‘she is a villain, that tells fortunes, and plies magic fast and loose. She has been here once before.’
‘Then what will become of her children?’
‘Aye, the bairns, tis well remembered. I will see to that. I’ll leave you now,’ the gudeman finished pleasantly, ‘until this time the morn. And when I come this way, I’ll pass a cup of water through the grate.’
‘Send word to Richard Cunningham. I swear he will repay you, on my life,’ Hew implored.
‘But you know, my dear sir,’ the gudeman countered mildly, ‘your life is not worth very much. And though you cry for Master Cunningham, I doubt your kinship to him. We cannot have him troubled, by every loun and limmar that would plead for his defence. Well, though, you speak bravely, and you have an honest face, and a certain youth and softness that acquits you well, and so for that reason I will grant you that when Master Cunningham comes next to court, I will speak to him your name and make your predicament known. He is not here at present. He is gone about the circuit court.’
Hew cried, despairing, ‘Then what happens next?’
‘Next Tuesday you will come before the magistrate. If no one comes to speak for you, you likely will be scourged and branded in the lug. Take my advice, learn from it, and look for proper work. You may find it in the coal pits or the salt pans. Do not resort to begging, else you will be hanged.’ With that word of comfort, the gudeman slammed shut the door, leaving Hew alone to contemplate his fate.
Fate and Fortune Page 9