‘Also, he left properties in the charge of a goldsmith, George Urquhart. The receipts were destroyed in the Forth.’
‘Urquhart, now, I know. That may prove a problem.’ Richard stroked his beard. ‘Though I may vouch for you, Urquhart is unlikely to release the deeds without receipts. I suggest that you write to your lawman in St Andrews, asking him to send you letters of entitlement. I will pay the messenger. But that will take two or three weeks to arrange. In the meantime, why not stay here as my pupil, and try how it will please you?’
Laughing, Hew gave up the fight. ‘Aye, then, for a week or two, I thank you. Though I must conclude my business while I stay.’
‘Indeed you must. I shall not make too heavy inroads on your time. Tomorrow, I am occupied, and may not take you with me; you may see your printer, and call upon my credit to buy yourself new clothes. On Thursday, there’s a case begins …’ Richard broke off thoughtfully. ‘Well, we shall see.’
‘I may prove a poor enough pupil,’ Hew warned him.
‘Time will tell.’ Richard smiled. ‘These are momentous times. The earl of Morton has been taken and before too long we may expect his trial. I do not say I will be able to take you to that; nor is it yet quite certain who will prosecute, but there is much to do here, and a great deal to be learned.’
‘I have been abroad, and have not heard this,’ Hew exclaimed. ‘What is the charge against Morton?’
‘The murder of King Henry Darnley. That has been a long time coming.’
‘Doubtless, Morton’s hands are bloody, yet I might suppose him innocent of that. I saw him at St Andrews,’ Hew reflected, ‘with Lennox and the king.’
‘Already then, his card was marked. Nemesis cares little when she strikes.’
‘Old wounds are apt to open.’
‘I suppose they are.’ Richard frowned a little. ‘You must be exhausted, Hew. It’s time we went to bed. And, for your father’s sake, be well assured you are well loved and welcome in this house.’
It was true, Hew reflected, climbing the stair; he was barely awake. And yet before he lay down he took ink to paper, crouched in the candlelight, writing a letter to Giles. Finally, as he blew out the lamp, he felt in the closet for his battered knapsack, tucking it carefully under the bed.
Christian Hall
Hew took Richard at his word and spent the morning shopping. Many of the hie gate lands had buiths below their galleries, and he ordered shoes and linens from the soutars and the drapers at the north side of the tron. At the tailor at the cross he was measured for a suit of clothes. He bought a cloak of tufted taffeta and a matching feathered hat in gooseturd green, and a coat of black fustian, for wearing to the courts. At last he came to browse among the bookshops. Some sold Latin books for schoolmen, bought from overseas; others pawned the bric-a-brac that poured forth weekly from the press, bibles, psalms and catechisms, stirring sermons, travellers’ tales, for anyone that read. The pedlars hawked ephemera: gossip, news and scandals, scores and ballad sheets. Some were shabby, second-hand, in this brave new age of print already worn and soiled. All carried frank advertisement, promising to thrill. Hew inquired for Christian Hall, and was directed to the Netherbow, where Robert Lekprevik had kept his press. On the south side near the Canongate he found the printing house.
The printers’ shops had paper windows, varnished to translucency, to filter out the brightness of the sun. In Christian’s case, this seemed a mere formality; the windows looking out upon the windswept street faced resolutely north. The press was approached from the side, through a vennel dark with ink, where the lye ran freely from the printer’s rinsing trough. In the absence of a sign, the paper and the ink were clues enough.
Hew pushed open the door. He found himself inside a workplace, rather than a shop. A single pressman laboured on a heavy press, pulling and beating in turn. Behind him the typesetter stood at his frame, making the best of the light. Neither glanced up, and Hew was uncertain which one was more likely to be Christian Hall, the master printer. He caught the eye of a young prentis lad, ferrying paper forwards and back from the press. The boy reminded Hew a little of the devil’s imps at Dysart, for his cheeks were smudged and black. Nonetheless, he had the sense that the printer’s daubs were playful, and like the paper windows were provided for effect. The hands that held the paper were quite clean.
‘May I speak with your master?’ Hew called out.
Momentarily, the boy appeared to hesitate. Then he nodded, dropped his papers by the pressman, and hurried to the corner of the room where the galleys were laid out. Hew saw him tug the sleeve of the compositor, who was lifting letter from a tray. The man looked down at him and frowned. Hew edged a little closer. The master seemed reluctant. ‘What is it now, boy? Wait until I fill the line.’
‘Yon man there wants you now,’ the boy insisted, ‘over by the door.’
‘Truly?’ The printer seemed sceptical.
‘Will I finish the line for you?’ asked the apprentice.
‘That you will not.’
Composing stick still in his hands, the printer came forward to Hew. ‘Aye? Can I help you, sir?’
Hew held out his hand. ‘Hew Cullan. You are Master Hall?’
Inexplicably, the man turned on his heel, steadied the stick in his left hand, and cuffed the young apprentice with the right. ‘It’s Christian he wants. Excuse us, sir,’ he bowed to Hew.
The lad reddened, but stood firm.
‘Yon asked for to speak with my master,’ he countered stubbornly. Surreptitiously, he rubbed the corner of his ear.
‘Aye. And you know, and I know, that I am not the master here.’
‘Aye, but you might be,’ persisted the boy. ‘One day, you will. And you will have a printshop of your own, and then you’ll take me as your prentis, will you not?’
‘Villain! Why would I do that?’ The compositor opened a door that led through to a stair. He called out abruptly, ‘Christian, you’re wanted!’ and without another word returned to his composing stick. The pressman caught Hew’s eye, and grinned at him. He straightened from the press and flexed his arms.
Somewhere above, Hew heard footsteps, and then a young woman appeared, with a child upon her hip, and her hair falling loosely from her cap, where the bairn had tugged at it. She was simply dressed in smock and pale blue kirtle, and the stray wisps of hair were the colour of light straw. Glancing round the shop, she set the child down on the floor. The infant toddled, curious, towards the press. The woman smiled distractedly. She wore an anxious look, which disappeared at once when she relaxed. She was, Hew judged, no more than twenty-three.
‘Well, sir, can I help you?’ she inquired of him.
‘Thank you, I was looking for Christian Hall.’
‘And you have found her. But I see you are surprised,’ she answered seriously.
It had simply not occurred to Hew that the printer Christian Hall might be a woman. He understood, at last, the bailies’ cunning looks.
‘Not at all.’ He bowed politely, masking his confusion. ‘I have come here as a stranger, and I must explain myself. I am Hew Cullan, son of Matthew, and I understand my father had some business here. Since his death it falls to me to settle his affairs. There were letters, signed by you, among his papers.’ He hesitated, reading genuine concern in Christian’s face. She had large, expressive eyes, of the palest blue.
‘Oh, but that’s sad news! When did he die?’
‘He was buried three weeks past. Forgive me, mistress. Did you know my father?’
Christian shook her head. ‘In truth, I never met him. Yet he was so kind to us. He was instrumental in setting up the press. He helped my husband … William, no!’
The infant had picked up an ink ball, and was busily applying it upon the heap of paper freshly stacked. The pressman looked up on Christian’s cry, and came to part the child and ink, scooping William up into his arms. The infant struggled lustily. Christian ran her fingers through her hair and sighed. ‘Take the bairn outsid
e,’ she told the prentis boy. To Hew she explained, ‘His nurse is sick today, and we are lost without her.’
The young apprentice scowled. ‘I’ve letter to rinse out for Phillip.’
‘Do as your mistress bids.’ The pressman set the child upon its feet again and gave the lad a warning glare. Sulkily, he took the infant’s hand.
‘Aye, do it, Michael,’ said Christian gently, ‘I will recompense your time.’
‘We have reason to be grateful to your father,’ she continued, as the child was coaxed away. ‘You did not know?’ She seemed surprised. ‘I am grieved to hear tell of his passing. Have you heard this, Phillip?’ she called out to the compositor. ‘This is Hew Cullan, son of Matthew. He brings us grave news. His father has died.’
‘Matthew Cullan?’ the compositor sighed as he gave up his type and returned to look at Hew, extending his hand. ‘Ah, sir, I’m sorry for it. Pray, forgive our rudeness.’
‘How so? Are we rude?’ Christian asked sharply.
‘A misunderstanding. With Michael.’
‘Tis an ill-mannered boy,’ the pressman chipped in – he was leaning on his press, listening in all openness – ‘that requires correction.’
‘When I require correction, I will ask for it directly,’ Christian replied. ‘And if I see you idle at your press, it will set you back you a shilling. And another sixpence, if I hear you swear.’ Snorting, the pressman returned to his work.
The compositor smiled. ‘At risk of chastisement,’ he said in a dry tone to Christian, ‘Walter is right. You are soft with him, I think.’
‘Aye,’ she answered quietly. ‘And I mean to speak with Michael. But not in front of strangers.’
It was clear that she thought well of Phillip, who returned to his work with a nod. Christian turned back to Hew. ‘Come through to the sorting house.’ She led the way into a little room. High up in the beams, the printed sheets were hanging out to dry, and there were piles of papers folded on the floor, about to be collated into books. The finished works were set out on a table, ready to be sold and bound. ‘It’s quiet here,’ Christian explained, ‘and we shan’t disturb their work. The printing is behind, for we were frozen out.’
‘What do you mean, frozen out?’ queried Hew.
‘The letter and the paper were both stiff with ice. We could not print. It seldom happens here.’ Unconsciously, she shivered. ‘For we have a good fire in the printshop, though the roofs are high. This street is always cold. But winter came so late this year. We were not expecting it.’
‘Indeed, it has been hard,’ Hew agreed politely. He wanted to forget the bleak and frozen preface to his father’s funeral. ‘Mistress, I will come to the point. As I believe my father paid you monies …’
Christian nodded, guardedly. ‘He did so, willingly. And they were investments, sir. We did not count them debts.’
Her voice held a hint of defensiveness, short of a plea. Hew thought he understood. A widow, struggling to support her child, to maintain her husband’s press, had seemed a worthy cause to Matthew. Now she was afraid the son called in the debt. To deflect from her discomfort, Hew picked up a book. ‘“A dire warning”. Of what?’ he inquired.
‘Almost anything you like.’ She smiled unexpectedly. ‘They are admonitory tracts, and always very popular. The direr the warning, the greater the thrill. We do not print them for ourselves; they are for Henry Charteris. But we fell behind, and almost lost the work.’ She fell silent, a little reflective, as though there was something she was not saying.
Hew leafed through the pamphlet. ‘Very dire indeed,’ he commented. ‘And very nicely wrought. How did you come upon the trade? I mean, to have a printing shop?’
‘As a girl, I had a tutor, and I learned to read. My father was a scholar.’
‘Then he must be proud of you,’ Hew remarked politely.
‘I know not, for I never knew him,’ Christian sighed. ‘He died when I was very small, and I do not remember him. He was something in the law, my mother said; I know not what. And when I turned sixteen, my mother also died, and I was left alone, except for the tutor, and our servant, Alison. They both were dear to me; and Alison remains with us as William’s nurse. You see how much we miss her, when she is not here,’ she added wryly. ‘As for the tutor, he was William Hall. I married him.’
‘William Hall! You took his name!’ exclaimed Hew.
Christian regarded him curiously. ‘I kept it for the press,’ she admitted. ‘His name was at the bottom of the signet blocks, and when he died, the pressman cut it off, so I might use the mark, and save the expense of having them freshly engraved. And for myself,’ she added sadly, ‘I like to keep this small remembrance, for his sake. One day, God willing, when our son is a man, the press will be William’s again. The H on the block is for Hall, but the cross was put there for Christian.’
‘Then what signifies the bird?’
‘That was not our choice. William put it there to please your father, who had given so much money to the press.’
‘My father?’ Hew frowned. ‘I can’t think what it meant to him.’
‘Nor did William, but your father was so kind a friend to us, we would not have offended him. I have never liked that bird. At seedtime, when the farmers make their scarecrows out of corbie corpses, row on row of dead black birds, it always makes me shiver.’
Hew pondered this awhile. ‘How did your husband come to know my father?’ he wondered at last.
‘I cannot tell you, for I do not know. William was a scholar at St Andrews, so maybe they met there. Two years ago, when William died, I wrote to your father and he sent money through a goldsmith in the town. We promised we would print a book that he was writing. It was the least that we could do. In truth, I did not think that he would ever finish it. It seemed … you will forgive my candour, but it seemed an old man’s foolishness.’
‘I thought the same,’ admitted Hew. ‘Two years since, you say? Then I was still in France.’
‘William was a babe new born.’ Christian flushed. ‘Your father had invested in the business. It was not my intention to beg him for money, but to warn him that without it, the press must be sold.
He had the right to recover his share. Because of his kindness, and the goodwill of Phillip and Walter, we were able to keep going.’
‘And what is Phillip’s part in this?’ wondered Hew aloud.
Christian stared at him. ‘He works for me, and is a loyal friend. He has no other interest in the press. Why do you ask about him?’
Hew answered foolishly. ‘It’s nothing. Only I would know the extent of the investment, that is all.’
‘The business does quite well,’ she told him frankly, ‘but if you wanted capital …’
‘No, no,’ he assured her, ‘that’s not why I’m here. I brought the manuscript – my father’s book – for printing.’
‘Then it’s ready for the press? I had not thought it possible!’ Christian exclaimed.
‘It was,’ Hew unwrapped the cloth, ‘but there has been an accident.’
It was almost, he thought, like bringing a patient to Giles, waiting for the moment when the loose fear in the belly froze and set, and the doctor shook his head. He remembered the warmth of the hand on his shoulder when he had stood frozen in the garden of his father’s house, not knowing, not wanting to know.
Christian gave an exclamation, and began to separate the quires, laying out the pages on the board.
‘Can it be deciphered?’ Hew asked her helplessly.
‘I know not, we must try. What happened to it?’
‘It fell in the Forth.’
‘Aye? And what is the dark stain?’ She wrinkled her nose. ‘We must salvage what we can. It will take a little time. Will you help us, Master Cullan, to make good your father’s hand? We have no corrector here.’
‘Can it be done?’ he asked. ‘I have the time. I mean to stay in town for several weeks, attending at the courts.’
‘Then you intend to be a lawm
an like your father?’
‘What do you know of that?’ demanded Hew.
‘It’s a law book, is it not?’ Christian answered mildly.
‘Aye, of course. Forgive me, I forget my manners … The truth is I had thought myself indifferent to the law; the manuscript itself I took for nothing, until I saw it drowned.’
‘I understand,’ she told him softly. ‘So often, we know only what we want, when once it’s lost.’
And for the sympathy, the understanding in her face, the care with which she turned the pages, he felt she read his heart, and feeling at a loss, he looked away.
‘Phillip, come here a moment!’ She had opened the door and called to the compositor, who groaned and left his place. ‘Christian,’ he said patiently, ‘I will not finish these today.’
‘It can’t be helped. Come, look at this. It’s Matthew Cullan’s manuscript. Can you set it, do you think? It has got wet,’ she added, unnecessarily.
Phillip turned the pages, frowning thoughtfully. As last he turned to Hew. ‘It can be done. But it will take some time to make this copy good. Are you in a hurry, sir? You may want to hire a scribe.’
‘No hurry,’ Hew insisted, reckless with relief. ‘I can do the work myself.’
Christian said firmly. ‘We shall not want a scribe. With Master Cullan’s help, we shall make the copy good in half the time.’
Phillip conceded doubtfully, ‘Well, you are the master here.’
‘Aye,’ suddenly, her seriousness dissolved into a grin, ‘I am. Remember it!’
Hew liked her, and at once he felt the manuscript was in safe hands. As if she read his thoughts, Christian smiled at him. ‘You and I shall work on this together. You can read aloud, and I will make the copy for Phillip to set. For the present, I must see to William. Michael is a week boy and I cannot spare him long. But tomorrow, or the next day, we shall make a start.’
Hew bowed, ‘Madam, I look forward to it,’ and found that he meant it.
Hew returned to Richard’s house, where he already had begun to feel at home. The forestair on the hie gate led up to the gallery, where the maid had hung out washing in the April sun. He was touched to see the boatman’s breeks among the linen cloths and shirts. At supper that evening, in the great hall, he told the story of his visit to the printing house.
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