Hew watched as Alison and Michael made a picnic table out of the correcting stone. They took a pair of cording quires – the outer sheets of waste that bound the reams of paper – to set down as a cloth, and prepared a little meal of oatcakes and crowdie, bannocks and salt fish, with green ale for the grownups and small beer for the child. Hew was passed a cup and a trencher cut from bread as Walter toasted stale crusts on the fire. It was not the finest supper Hew had eaten in his life, but in many ways, it seemed the sweetest, eaten on the floor in the faltering candlelight. Phillip fetched a fiddle and began to play a jig, fast and furious at first, then mellowing to medleys sad and slow. Michael’s lips were dripping as he listened open-mouthed, and Hew exclaimed, ‘That boy is eating ink!’
Christian laughed, ‘It’s the linseed oil. He likes it.’
The boy grinned, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, smearing his whole face with black. But the spell was broken. The compositor set down his bow. ‘Michael likes to look the part.’ He returned the fiddle to its box and left the room.
Hew had forgotten that the Cunninghams expected him for supper. He was not used to family life, and found it hard, though not for want of kindness on their part. As a small child, he had lived with his parents on the Cowgate. He went, once or twice, to look at the house, but his mother’s face remained blurred; she had died when Meg was born and Hew was Grace’s age.
Hew found Grace disconcerting, for the child had taken to him, with a clear and steady trust he felt was undeserved. She missed her older brother James, an ally in her daily battles against Roger. Roger was fretful and taut, and Hew could not quite fathom him; though in his anger with his father, he sensed something of himself. When Hew was Roger’s age, Matthew had retired to Kenly Green, leaving Hew behind to lodge with his high master, a man Hew still remembered with alarm, and no great lasting fondness. At fourteen, he had moved up to St Andrews, to the university; for four years among boys and men, he saw little of his family. Then he had gone to France. And coming home at last, he found an old man and a grave young woman, secretive and strange, where he had left a father and a little sister, and had had to get to know them once again. Therefore, but for snatches, he had never known his sister as a child.
Richard, though he sparred with Roger, doted on his children, with a fierce and partial pride. Outside the hours of court, he was devoted to his wife and family, and their happiness and comfort was his main concern. It was a mark of his generosity, and that of all his family, that he extended this concern to Hew. Hew’s place in their home was accepted and assured, and it was only this unwonted kindness that left him feeling awkward, in a house where he was never left a stranger, nor ever felt that he was out of place.
Richard kept a small buith on the north side of the high street, in Leche’s close, a little further eastwards of the cross, where he received his clients, and where he liked to sit in the quiet hours of morning, preparing for the clamour of the day. It was there that Hew found him as the sun began to lift, a little after six. Richard closed his book.
‘I do not expect you to keep the hours that I do.’
‘I wanted some advice,’ explained Hew, ‘but I fear I am disturbing you.’
‘Not at all. My habits are my own, and peculiarly entrenched. In the early mornings you will find me here, and the early evening hours are reserved to share with family. All the other hours, I am at work. But all my time is placed at your disposal, if I am of use to you.’
Hew shook his head. ‘I thank, you, sir. I do not deserve your kindness.’
‘Don’t you?’ Richard looked amused. ‘We must wait and see. Sit down there, and tell me what is troubling you.’ He stretched and stood up, walking to the window. ‘This is my favourite part of the day,’ he confided. ‘I like to see the world unfolding. There are no carts, no hucksters, in the early hours. I like it when the lanterns snuff out in the darkness, and a gradual waking creeps across the sky; the noisy, dirty, smoky city stirring, like a phantom in the loch, before the hungry monster roars.’
‘I had not quite considered it that way,’ reflected Hew. ‘It is dirty, certainly; noisy, thick and foul.’
‘But even the stench from the loch has its charm, don’t you think? Perhaps not …’ Richard mused.
‘Do you ever spend the night here?’ Hew asked.
‘Sometimes, before a particularly difficult case. But Eleanor does not like it. I confess, I may not come as late or early as I like.’
Hew nodded. ‘My brother-in-law, Giles, has a similar problem. He sometimes falls asleep in his consulting rooms. Though he is only lately married, which is worse.’
‘Indeed. Eleanor has grown patient, or else worn out of complaints, after all these years.’ Richard smiled gently. ‘What can I do for you?’
Hew sat in the chair reserved for clients and explained, ‘I wondered what you knew about the burgh courts? Specifically, what rights the printer has, and how he might protect his trade, when others seek to damage it.’
Richard scratched his head. ‘I confess, not much. That falls within the burgh council who license and take action as required. It is, I understand, well regulated though. As far as I can see, there are many petty jealousies among the printing trade. By the day, buiths and stalls are appearing in the crames, with all manner of pamphlets, books and playing cards – Eleanor bought a packet just the other day – and few of them are licensed by the burgh council. Some will pay their fines and stake their claims, and within a month or two are trading with the freemen, when last month they were foreigners, and complaining about the next load of foreigners, who impinge upon their trade. In general, the burgh welcomes printers, and is happy to encourage them, providing what they print is not scurrilous or scandalous or treasonous or troublesome, and does not upset the clergy or the king.
‘The man who could tell you more is the printer Henry Charteris. Or the first bailie, Thomas Wishart. You have met him once before. He is the man who arrested you when you arrived.’
Hew pulled a face. ‘I may give that a miss.’
‘I understand your qualms. They are a most officious crowd,’ said Richard, sympathetically. ‘What did you require, specifically?’
‘It is Christian Hall. It appears that another printer has a grudge against her, and has tried to close her down.’
‘She is a widow, who took on her husband’s press,’ Richard remarked.
‘Aye, she is.’
‘And therefore she is vulnerable. The likelihood is that this man – for, of course, it is a man – hopes to put her out of business, or to make her trade so hard she is obliged to sell.’
‘It looks that way.’ Hew told Richard about the fire. ‘But fire-raising, surely, is a matter for the justice court, and not the burgh,’ he concluded.
‘For certain, a plea of the Crown. But can it be proved? To leave a candle burning, though it may be careless, does not constitute a crime.’
‘But is Christian not entitled to some reparation, in as much as this occurred on Chapman’s premises?’ Hew persisted.
‘As to that, I cannot say. It is a matter for the burgh court. I hazard, though, it will be thought an accident, and Chapman cleared of any blame, and any debt to her.’
‘Well then, is there a way to stop his intimidation of her?’
‘How is it manifest?’
‘He claims he wants to marry her.’
Richard burst out laughing. ‘I do not think the courts would count that a threat to her. You mentioned that she had a child?’
Hew nodded. ‘Aye, a little boy.’
‘Then I imagine that the council would encourage her to take up Chapman’s offer. It is difficult enough do the work, without a child. Therefore it is hard to prove that there is any ill intent. May I ask you something?’
‘Aye, of course.’
‘You seem a little too … involved with Christian Hall. Do you think it wise?’
Hew coloured. ‘My father invested deeply in her press; I feel connected to
her,’ he explained.
‘That I understand,’ said Richard thoughtfully. ‘Have you made much progress with the book?’
‘We have started the first chapter. But the work is very long. And, if I dare to say it, rather tedious. It will take a little time to restore the damaged parts. With your permission, I will go this afternoon, and return to it.’
‘You could, perhaps, bring the manuscript here, where there are fewer – shall we say – distractions,’ suggested Richard.
‘I thank you, but the book has been broken in parts, and takes up a great deal of space. And if I make corrections in the printing house, they can be set more quickly, as I go along,’ Hew answered hurriedly. It was a poor excuse, and one that scarcely hid the truth: he wanted to see Christian. Richard looked displeased for a moment, and then smiled. Hew recognised his mood, and his control of it.
‘I am afraid you may be falling in too deep,’ Richard answered thoughtfully. ‘And I think that as your friend I ought to find out more of this. Who is Christian Hall? For I confess, I do not know the press, and I know nothing of her husband. There is a tale attached to the premises she has; for they belonged to someone else before.’
‘Another printer?’ queried Hew.
‘Another printer, aye, that went away. But that is not my point. Where did Christian come from? And how did she know your father? Her house is somewhat far from Kenly Green, and somewhat close to mine, yet I had never heard of it. And since her press prints books about the law, I should perhaps have heard of it.’
‘I think that this is a new departure,’ Hew explained. ‘I have the impression, that it was a small and private press; printing bills and leaflets, pamphlets and so on, and not so many books. It seems my father financed it. Perhaps, after all, it was an old man’s foolishness: he wanted to make sure they would take on his book. It is unlike him, certainly. I never thought him vain. But it is evident his interest in the press ran deep, for he went so far as choosing the device. It was the mark that confused me, at the start, for I had supposed it was Christian’s, though in fact it was her husband’s. He was William Hall.’
‘If he was William Hall,’ Richard mused, ‘then who was she?’
‘That the strangest thing. She does not seem to know, or else she does not want to tell me. I thought perhaps the goldsmith, Urquhart, might know more.’
Richard was silent for a moment. Then he said thoughtfully, ‘I think it very likely that he does. Urquhart is a great repository of facts. He keeps his secrets close. He is the most elusive man, for he has no curiosity. And people tell him things, because he does not care. Well then, we must sound him out, before you fall in love with her.’
Hew was startled. ‘I do not mean to fall in love with her!’ he protested.
Richard laughed, ‘As to that, it is quite clear that you do, and that nothing I can say has hope of dissuading you. Therefore, I suggest that we find out who she is.’
He walked towards the window, looking out. ‘The streets begin to fill. It is never still for long,’ he said. ‘Already I can hear the hucksters, practising their cries, though the markets do not properly begin till noon. The restless monster does not does not sleep for long. You mentioned a device. What was that?’
‘The letter H entwined about a cross, for Christian and for Hall.’
‘I thought you said it was the husband’s mark?’
‘Aye, it was. It makes no sense. The H was for him, and the cross was meant for her, and so it seems the press belonged to both of them. And above this is the tree of knowledge, that is often found on books, and sitting in the tree there is a black bird, like a raven or a crow, and no one seems to know what that might mean, but Christian says, it was my father’s wish to have the corbie.’
‘A corbie?’ Richard murmured. ‘That is strange. You don’t know, I suppose, what that signified to him?’
‘I confess, I can’t imagine,’ answered Hew. ‘It is another mystery.’
A Corbie Messenger
‘We are running out of ink,’ Richard remarked, poking his head round the door, ‘and the clerk is at the council house. Perhaps you would be good enough to fetch some from the stationer, and to call at home, where I have left a letter I shall have to answer presently. It is from a distant cousin of my wife, and bears the Preston seal. You will find it in the writing desk, in my private closet.’ He handed Hew a key.
Hew accepted gladly, grateful for the air. He was pleased at Richard’s trust, for Richard had been occupied all morning with a stream of personal clients that showed no sign of slowing, none of whom would let him listen in. Hew had spent the hours in the servant’s cubicle, feeling stiff and bored. He left Richard to his work and wandered through the town, prepared to take his time. The stationer kept shop across the street, at the east end of the luckenbooths, the row of shops that stretched down from the tolbooth, along the northern aspect of St Giles. They occupied the space of seven tenements, with over buiths above, and further storeys in the process of construction, in keeping with the upward progress of the town. They had narrowed the street on the north side to a tight little lane, known as the buith raw, squeezing out the light from every house. In the middle of the luckenbooths an arched passage led through to the kirk stile, the porch of the kirk of St Giles. More commonly referred to as the stinking stile, this passageway collected all the debris from the shops, thrown from upper windows to the backside of the street. Behind it, between luckenbooths and kirk, were makeshift stalls set out against the north wall of the church, spilling from each buttress, nook and cranny. Hew walked now among these chapmen, watching as they opened out their stalls. He was astonished at how much they could fit in so small a place. Some sold haberdashery, silks and linens, buttons, lace and threads. Others offered silverware or pewter spoons and cups. There were vinegars and oil, cinnamon and cloves, and every type of metalwork, from knife and pot handles to buckles and locks, from scissors to purses and pins. There were chess sets too, and playing cards, and tiny painted horses made of lead or wood. All the trappings and effects of an inner world were found among the crames, the small essential fragments that made up domestic life. And yet the merchants were ephemeral, locking up their secrets when the markets closed. Hew thought he recognised a figure at the far side of the lane, but by the time he made his way there, the man had disappeared. And that was the sense that he had of the cramers, like Egyptian story-tellers, fugitive from law, they could come and go as easily as dreams.
Hew bought the ink and continued to the house for Richard’s letter. He found the children playing in the hall and paused to watch, for Grace was building cards into a house.
‘Those are pretty,’ Hew observed, as the card tower tumbled down. ‘Where did you get them?’
‘Minnie bought them from a man in town. She thought that they might help me learn.’ The child pulled a face. ‘My father has sent away the nurse, and engaged a mistress. She speaks to me in French.’
‘She was once a maid,’ explained Roger, ‘that belonged to the old queen, Mary. Father thought she might teach Grace some better manners. I think that unlikely, though.’
‘I have good manners, don’t I?’ the little girl appealed to Hew.
‘Certainly, you do.’
‘I don’t like Jehanne,’ she pouted. ‘She is old, and smells of garlic.’
‘My sister, you recall, has a most discerning nose,’ Roger said unpleasantly to Hew.
His sister scowled. ‘Is he making fun of me?’
‘I might suspect he mocked us both,’ Hew told her solemnly, ‘if I believed, he could be so discourteous.’ Roger had the grace to blush.
‘Are you not at school today?’ asked Hew.
‘Roger has the cough, and the master finds it tiresome,’ Grace answered for him. ‘Actually, so do we.’
Hew laughed. ‘Poor Roger! We must hope he will be better soon.’
‘Do you speak French?’ Grace went on.
‘A little,’ Hew admitted.
Roger s
aid, ‘French is for girls and dancing masters,’ and Hew ignored him. Grace replied, ‘I should like a dancing master. But we don’t have dancing here. Who was it taught you French?’
‘A French girl called Colette,’ Hew answered gravely.
‘Was she bonny?’
‘Aye, she was,’ he smiled at her.
‘Jehanne is fat and ugly. And she does not know how to dance. I think that was why the queen left her behind, when she went away.’
‘How stupid you are,’ Roger sneered.
Hew said hurriedly, ‘May I see the cards? I have a pack like this at home.’
‘Aye, very well,’ Grace sighed. ‘I cannot make them stand up, anyway. They keep on falling down. Look, I do know the names. This one is the sun, le soleil, and this one is le roy, the king; and here is the devil,’ she made a little shiver, ‘le diable; and this one,’ she screwed up her face, ‘is … le pen-du …’
‘The hanged man,’ said Roger, looking over her shoulder.
‘I know that, he’s the hanging man. Why is he upside down?’
‘Because he is a traitor,’ Roger said maliciously, ‘the worst type of thief. Tis likely that before they hanged him they would—’
‘Likely, aye, but not for little girls,’ Hew interrupted hurriedly. Roger grinned.
‘They make up a game of triumphs. Do you know how to play it?’ he asked Hew.
‘Certainly, I do.’
‘Then will you teach it to us?’ Grace implored.
‘If your mother will allow it – though I fear that means no. Meantime, let us try again to build your tower.’
Hew was thoughtful as he handed back the cards. He had seen the pack before, or one very like it, in St Andrews on the stall of Marten Voet.
Hew fell into a pattern of attending Richard in the morning, either in the court house or his buith in Leche’s close. When the courts were not in session, his afternoons were free. Most of them he spent in Christian’s shop, correcting Matthew’s copy, or reading out to Phillip as he set the type. Hew came to admire the compositor’s skill, and the speed with which he set the type by touch, without looking down to the letters, and he learned to stand where he did not block the light, and not to touch the formes before they were locked into the chases. Walter and Phillip worked in curious harmony, each regulated by the motions of the other, each goading on the other to increase his speed. Michael meanwhile ran between them, and fetched and carried as required, while Christian collected and collated the texts, prepared the sheets for binding, and dealt with any customers. And Hew began to learn the printer’s cant and customs, which amused him with their quaintness; how each new year they made fresh paper windows, to protect the pages from the sun; how Walter was a horse and Phillip was a galley slave, though to say so in their hearing resulted in a solace, or a fine. These solaces, for transgressions of the printing house, were collected at the week’s end and translated into liquor, for the little suppers that the chapel shared. And Hew began to look forward to those evenings most of all, when Christian would pull off her apron and cap, shake loose her hair and sit down by the fire, and Phillip would take out his fiddle and play, while William spun himself dizzy and chased round the room, flushed from his walks on the muir.
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