Fate and Fortune

by Shirley McKay

  ‘Do your researches go well?’ he ventured.

  ‘Doctor Dow shows some success in remitting the excesses of disease,’ Giles answered cautiously.

  ‘In the hie town and the kirk they say that pox is rampant in the Canongate, and has its roots at Holyrood, in our royal court,’ Hew persisted.

  ‘There is truth in that.’ The doctor sliced a slab of pie, unwilling to be drawn.

  ‘Truly, I confess, I give it little credence. Such rumour is the bastard of a lax and free regime, the rise of Esme Stewart, and the threat of papacy, of all things French and foreign, driving fear and loathing through the town. This city is a closed, suspicious place, whose frank mistrust of foreigners is bordered at the netherbow. I counted it the hatred of lascivious excess.’

  ‘A moral apoplexy. There is truth in that,’ Giles smiled. ‘Nonetheless, be assured, there is grandgore in the Canongate. Though I concede that rumour overplays the threat. When I see poor wretches suffer, I am bound to take it seriously.’

  ‘And yet you say that Doctor Dow has some success in treating it.’

  Giles took a sip of ale. ‘He has had success in moderating symptoms, with a herbal remedy procured from Bessie here. I remain unconvinced that the sickness has been stifled at its root. My fear is that the pox lies dormant, and will rear its head again, but after many years. Its legacy appears in babes unborn,’ he added gloomily.

  ‘A sad prognostication,’ Hew observed. ‘I heard tell of prisoners who had lost their noses. Would it be the grandgore?’ he wondered.

  ‘More than likely.’

  ‘I have heard it said that the late King Henry Darnley had the grandgore, not the smallpox, when he came to lie at Kirk o’ Fields.’

  ‘I have heard the same,’ admitted Giles.

  ‘Our present young king is weak-limbed and bowed.’

  Giles grinned. ‘Now you are the one who makes rumour,’ he pointed out. ‘So scandals spread more quickly than the plague. Though he may be indifferently formed, his defects are not typical of pox. I think it is some other ill afflicts our present king.’

  Hew fell silent, staring in his cup. Presently he said, ‘You speak of sickness passing through the generations. Meg has the epilepsie.’

  ‘Aye, what of it?’ Giles said calmly.

  ‘My cousin Robin Flett, his sister died of falling sickness.’

  ‘He was your mother’s cousin, as I understand.’

  ‘Then if Meg had a child, the child might have it too?’

  Giles sat thoughtful for a moment. Then he answered quietly. ‘It is a possibility. I do not count the risk. It does not pass directly to the child.’

  ‘And if I had a child?’

  ‘It is a possibility.’

  ‘And this does not … deter you, I suppose?’ questioned Hew.

  ‘It is as I say. I do not count the risk.’

  ‘My mother died in childbirth,’ Hew reflected.

  ‘That, too, I have noted. And since the risk to Meg outweighs the danger to the child, I cannot give it countenance.’

  ‘What is it you are saying? That she cannot have a child?’

  ‘That I do not wish to speak of it,’ Giles replied emphatically. ‘Come, this is not why we are here. I am charged to speak with you, on a matter of some delicacy.’

  ‘Aye, so you said. What can be so delicate, you do not wish to speak of it?’

  The doctor sighed. ‘It is your sister wanted me to mention this to you,’ he explained at last. ‘She thinks you are not kind to Christian. There, the thing is said. Though I count it little of my business, I come merely as Meg’s messenger. She thinks also … that you are too reckless in your friendship with Catherine Douglas, who is wanton and not to be trusted. According to Meg.’

  After this awkward speech, he cleared his throat, and stared uncomfortably into his cup.

  Hew was still for a moment. Then he said quietly, ‘Meg is quite wrong on both counts.’

  Giles looked up. ‘Dearly, I should like to tell her so. Though I confess that what I have seen looks rather to confirm it. It is plain to us all that there is a bond between you and Christian, and yet, to her face, you are flirting with Catherine, to whom I sense you have no real attachment, and that causes Christian hurt.’

  ‘As I say, you are wrong on both counts,’ Hew repeated. ‘I do not deny there is a strong connection between myself and Christian, and it is no surprise that Christian has sensed it. No doubt, Meg feels it too, though she cannot know why. Christian is our father’s child. Therefore, my regard for her may not be more than that.’

  Giles exclaimed, ‘But surely, that cannot be true!’

  ‘I only wish that it were not,’ Hew answered sadly. He told what he had learned from Urquhart. ‘If you can find some other explanation,’ he concluded, ‘then I should be more than glad to hear it.’

  Giles shook his head. ‘Though I did not know Matthew long, I would not have expected this of him. And he kept it secret all that time?’

  ‘Aye, and from Christian herself. I have not felt able to tell her. In my father’s defence, he made provision for her. He has watched over her for all these years.’

  ‘Then when he sent you with the manuscript …’

  Hew nodded. ‘He must have meant me to find out. And finding her in trouble, I determined to protect her. For she is my sister, nothing less, and nothing more.’

  ‘You must not tell Meg. For Matthew was the world to her. This would break her heart,’ Giles declared decisively.

  ‘I know it. Nor would she believe it. But she and Christian met when they were bairns. He took Meg to the house at Calton crags. Aye, he was that open, Giles. He let them play together.’

  ‘Dear, dear, then I am sorry for it. This is hard on Christian,’ Giles reflected. ‘It is plain she likes you, Hew.’

  ‘And I like her. But it cannot be helped.’

  Giles shook his head. ‘It is a muddle and a mess. Where does Catherine come in this? She is your consolation, I suppose, a mere distraction?’

  ‘Not at all,’ Hew replied seriously. ‘To say so were to underrate her charms, and insult her. Catherine’s flippancy and wit are a pretence, that masks a hurt and tender soul, and I am quite honest in my regard for her. I like her very much.’

  Giles pursed his lips. ‘You do not count her a risk?’

  ‘If she is a risk, then I am prepared to take it. All my life, I have been treated as a child, cosseted and guided, given good advice. Now, even now, though I am of age, and come into my inheritance, I am once again a pupil in someone else’s house. I am tired of it, Giles. Trust me, for once, to know my own mind,’ Hew insisted.

  ‘Then I suppose there can be little point in warning you against her,’ Giles agreed at last. ‘Aye, go where you will. I wish you happiness. In any case, I shall not interfere.’

  * * *

  Hew returned to Christian’s shop, hoping to see Catherine once again. The talk with Giles had strengthened his resolve: he wanted to make love to her. He wanted to prolong the friendship, knowing there was nothing in the way. Coming to the printing house, he was aghast at what he found. At first he thought of William, run amok, and yet he knew the damage went beyond what could have been inflicted by a child: he met a scene of devastation. Walter’s press had been wrenched off from its brace, and a bare hole marked the floor where it had stood. The paper in the windows had been stripped and torn, and all the locks were broken, while the door swung open on its hinges to the gawping street. Phillip knelt with Christian in the middle of the shop, picking over fragments in the dust. ‘All of this, ruined,’ he said starkly.

  ‘What has happened here?’ Hew cried.

  Christian answered calmly. ‘We have had a visit from the burgh council.’

  ‘I do not understand.’

  ‘They closed us down.’ She waved her hand towards the door, to which was pinned a paper: ‘Closed, by order of the magistrates.’

  Phillip stood up. ‘The council have impounded all the letter
and press – save what they have scattered on the floor.’

  ‘Is is broken?’ Christian asked him softly.

  ‘Most of this is chipped. But it is not ours. It was left by the printer who was here before us, and is very old and worn. Look, these are musical notes, of which we have none of our own.’

  ‘He left nothing, I suppose, to do us harm?’

  ‘Only worn out letter. I will wrap it up, and return it to the store. It was copy they were looking for, and they have taken all our formes and manuscripts and all the wrought-off sheets.

  ‘They took your father’s book. I’m sorry, Hew,’ said Christian sadly.

  ‘Catherine’s poems?’ he questioned, with a flooding dread.

  Christian shook her head. ‘All of them were sent to her, the copy too. And Phillip has distributed the type. We left no trace.’

  ‘Thank God for that!’ To his shame, Hew felt regret; for if Catherine’s poems were printed she would not come again.

  ‘Then what were they looking for?’ He struggled to dismiss the thought of Catherine, focusing on Christian.

  Phillip shrugged. ‘They had word, they said, of illicit printing on these premises. They have taken away the copy in their search for evidence. When they do not find it – be assured, they will not find it,’ he said fiercely to Christian, ‘then they will absolve us and return it. All this means is that someone has complained of us. As to who, we need not ask. It was Allan Chapman.’

  ‘Can you be sure?’ Hew frowned.

  ‘It is most likely, Hew,’ Christian confirmed. ‘Do not be alarmed. Though this may slow us down, it will not stop us. It is a hazard of our trade. The press will be restored.’

  Hew left them to their clearing up, and walked down to the Cowgate, coming back to Blackfriars wynd. For close to Bessie Brewster’s, by the school, he had noticed Allan Chapman’s printing house. He stood outside a moment, looking at the wares that Chapman had displayed on a counter folding out towards the street: inkhorns for schoolboys, penners and quills, and a small stack of pamphlets and books. He took a moment to compose himself before he pushed open the door. He found the master printer folding paper at his counter, at the forefront of his shop, a man in his late forties with a sly, suspicious smile. The printer gave a cautious welcome: ‘Can I help you, sir? You are, perhaps, a master at the school?’ He had noticed Hew’s black coat.

  ‘Indeed not,’ Hew said pleasantly, without elaboration. ‘I have a book that I am hoping to have printed.’

  ‘Oh aye?’ Chapman watched him narrowly. ‘What kind of book?’

  ‘It is a text book, for students of the law, written by my father. He was an advocate in the justice court, some years ago.’

  The printer looked cunning, counting the cost. ‘I know not, if we are the place for such a venture,’ he replied at last.

  ‘My father left sufficient funds to see it through the press,’ Hew mentioned carelessly.

  ‘Then that may be different. Let me take a look at it.’

  ‘Unfortunately, I do not have it here. It was at the press of Christian Hall, and was seized by the council this morning, along with the type. Perhaps you had heard?’

  ‘Really? Ah, really?’ Chapman looked amused, and, unless he acted well, quite pleasantly surprised. ‘Indeed, I had not heard,’ he commented. ‘So Christian had the bailies in.’ Though clearly welcomed, Hew felt sure this came as news. ‘Dear, dear! Was there something in your book to cause offence?’

  ‘I confess, I do not know; I have not read it,’ Hew admitted. ‘What would they be looking for? Should I be concerned?’

  ‘In general, Catholic tracts,’ the printer answered thoughtfully, ‘or anything thought likely to offend the kirk or king. Which is not always easy to predict,’ he smiled, a little sourly, ‘since what pleases one, invariably is poison to the other. I am afraid that sudden closure is a hazard of the press. We all are in perpetual thrall and censure of the council. Christian’s closing down may not be permanent. Though if it is, of course,’ he added, ‘she may find herself in gaol. Which only goes to prove what I have always said, that printing is no business for a woman. Least of all, a woman with a bairn.’

  ‘I cannot think my father’s book could cause offence,’ reflected Hew. ‘It was a simple textbook, somewhat sad and serious.’

  ‘Then the script will be returned to you, when it has been passed. By all means, when you have it, bring it here to us, and we will talk on terms. You are prepared, I suppose, to take on the full cost?’ Chapman persisted greedily.

  ‘That was the general idea,’ Hew agreed. ‘There are, of course, some other printers in the town. Such as Henry Charteris.’

  ‘Charteris does not take piecework,’ Chapman countered. ‘I have no doubt, we can meet you on fair terms.’

  ‘What I cannot understand,’ Hew returned, ‘is why Christian Hall’s press has been singled out for censure? When yours, for example, has been left unscathed.’

  ‘They may come to us in time,’ the printer grimaced. ‘But it is more likely that the council were informed by someone where to look. Most often, that is the way of it.’

  ‘Then who might inform them? A rival, perhaps, in the trade?’ suggested Hew.

  Chapman looked at him shrewdly. ‘If we did that sir, we would none of us stay open longer than a week. Let us hope the information received was false, and that Christian does not languish in the gaol like Robert Lekprevik.’

  ‘We must hope not,’ agreed Hew. ‘Meanwhile, since we may assume the script will be restored to us, may I look around your shop, and see some examples of your work?’ He had no real sense of what he should be looking for, yet he wanted to know more of Allan Chapman.

  ‘You may sir, if you do not stop the work,’ Chapman nodded. ‘I will show you round. We have three presses here, which means our capacity is far greater than Christian’s. Each press can produce up to fifteen hundred sheets in a twelve-hour day. To which end, we employ five pressmen, and the occasional extra hand, as this man here, who is working in two colours,’ he droned on, as they began their tour. ‘The black ink we buy in, in barrels, but the red is vermillion, bought as pigment and made up by the week boy on the premises. Two-colour printing is skilled work, and if you required it, would cost a little more. Alternatively, you can have the book coloured by hand, after it is printed. Do you wish for illustrations?’

  Hew was no longer listening. He was staring at the beater who applied the ink in quick, deft circles to the forme locked in the press. ‘But I know you!’ he exclaimed. ‘You are Marten Voet, the card seller.’

  Marten placed a sheet of paper down upon the forme and turned back to face them as the pressman pulled. ‘You are mistaken, sir,’ he answered quietly. ‘My name is Luc Martin. We have never met.’

  ‘Indeed, I am certain of it,’ insisted Hew. He confronted Allan Chapman. ‘This man is a card maker from Antwerp. I have met him once before, in St Andrews at the senzie fair, and he has lately been selling his wares in the hie gate, where he was fined for unfree trading.’

  Chapman shrugged. ‘That was not the tale I heard, though he is an itinerant. As far as I know, he is Luc Martin, a Frenchman, lately crossed from Rouen to Leith. Here, this will not do,’ he roared at Martin, ‘the ink is far too thick, and you have taken up too much of it. The paper has rubbed. Take care, man! Paper may come cheap to you in France, but they sell it dear enough to us; we cannot afford to waste it.’

  ‘Will you lose me my place, sir?’ Marten whispered to Hew, as he took up a waste sheet of paper. ‘For pity, why would you do that?’ He dabbed off the excess ink. Hew heard the desperation in his voice, and stepped back in confusion. He was certain, after all, that this was Marten Voet. Yet why should he expose him? He told a desperate tale of fear and persecution, living by his wits. Who could blame him if he chose to change his name?

  ‘Then I am mistaken,’ Hew conceded awkwardly, ‘And I beg your pardon.’

  Marten muttered, ‘Thank you,’ turning quickly bac
k towards the press.

  ‘Now then, sir,’ Chapman said reproachfully, ‘you promised not to stop the work. If they fall behind, the men will lose their pay, and that is not fair to them. The puller, now, is out of time, through no fault of his own. You have seen, besides, all there is to see here. Come back into the shop. If you wish to look at books, then we have some on the counter. You will have to pay for binding at additional cost. Gibson is a good man, near the tron. Now, what was it you were saying, about the Frenchman, Luc Martin? He is an itinerant journeyman, and I confess, I know little about him. Do you say that he cannot be trusted?’

  ‘Not at all,’ Hew capitulated hurriedly. ‘I fear I was misled. I took him for another man.’

  ‘Aye?’ Chapman sounded sceptical. ‘In any case, I will not keep him long. His work is careless, and wants finish. He came opportunely, when we wanted a man, but since he does not satisfy, I’ll let him go at the end of the week.’

  ‘I should not like to think I cost him his place,’ protested Hew, ‘by cause of an honest mistake.’

  ‘Not at all,’ Chapman said politely. ‘I am much obliged to you. I never cared for foreigners. They are a menace and a pest, a very plague.’

  ‘You offered to wed Christian, did you not?’ Hew asked him at the door.

  The printer regarded him curiously. ‘Aye, I did,’ he admitted, after a moment. ‘It was meant for a kindness. It is a hard thing for a woman to run a printing house. The offer was refused, and I was turned away, most unkindly. I shall not venture help to her again. But I think, sir, you are implying something other in your question. I do not like your tone.’

  ‘I meant nothing,’ Hew said thoughtfully, ‘save that I admired your wish to help her. I heard that you were kind enough to offer her a press, when she was frozen out.’

  ‘Aye, in our laich house,’ Chapman answered warily. ‘Regrettably, someone left his candle burning, and it caused a fire.’

  ‘I understood it was a boy of yours?’ probed Hew.

  ‘Did you, now? Ah, I see the way of it,’ Chapman stared at him. ‘Then ask yourself this: what sort of man sets light to his own premises? If any boy of mine had left his candle burning, then you would not find him here to tell the tale. If you want to know who threatens Christian’s business, look to Phillip Ramsey. That is all I’ll say. And now, good day to you. When you have your manuscript for printing, I’ll be glad to see it.’ Angrily, he closed the door.