Fate and Fortune

by Shirley McKay

  ‘How came you back to Liberton?’ Hew changed the subject tactfully.

  ‘The earl of Morton relented at last, and permitted me this living, that I have held these past three years. Now fortune has turned against him,’ Davidson continued without rancour. ‘God willing, I may bring some comfort in his final hours. Now,’ he went on, clearly moved. ‘What is it I can do for you?’

  When Hew had told his story, Davidson exclaimed, ‘Now there is a strange tale!’

  ‘And one that bears repeating,’ Hew assured him. ‘I urge you, spread the word.’

  ‘I doubt … I do fear, to do better than that.’ The minister seemed troubled. ‘Forgive me, I fear we have made a mistake.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ challenged Hew, half daring to hope.

  Davidson sighed. ‘Three nights ago, a stranger called here at the kirk. He brought a little child. He claimed he came upon him wandering by the muir, a gypsy bairn, he said. The bairn was threadbare and bloodied, soaking in the rain. He wanted us to take him as a foundling.’

  ‘Then you have him here?’ Hew demanded anxiously.

  The minister shook his head. ‘Peace, I regret, we do not have the child. The kirk session was convinced his story was a lie, and sent them on their way. The man was a packman, some sort of cadger. He would not have been the first to offer up his bairn, for the nurture of the parish, once his wife had died. As you must understand, the parish here is sorely overstretched. We have suffered famine now for several years. The soil is poor; our oats and barley seldom thrive. We cannot fill our own mouths, let alone a stranger’s bairn.’

  ‘Where did you send them? Which way did they go?’ Hew asked abruptly.

  ‘We set them on the Dalkeith road, and that with no good grace,’ Davidson admitted. ‘They were going south.’

  ‘Then you will excuse me. I must take my leave.’

  ‘I understand your haste. But consider that this may not be your child, but the cadger’s own true bairn, as we supposed.’

  Hew shook his head. ‘A child of two or three, and wandering on the muir, is too much a coincidence. It must be William.’

  ‘Pray God, then, that you find them. There is one more thing, ‘the minister said delicately, ‘that you do not seem to notice on this paper here. Was William an idiot child?’

  Hew stopped in his tracks. ‘An idiot?’ He stared. ‘No, you are mistaken. He is not an idiot.’

  ‘Then you must consider this is not your child. The chapman brought a blabbering bairn, that whimpered when we questioned it, and could not speak its name. It was a factor we considered when we thought to take him in. An idiot bairn may fail to earn a living, and may yet live long.’

  ‘Thank God for Christian charity!’ Hew answered bitterly.

  The minister smiled ruefully. ‘The little that we have does not go far.’

  As they came towards Dalkeith, Richard’s horse began to flag and Hew left him at the stables of the nearest inn, to be fed and watered. He walked to the parish church of St Nicholas, close by Dalkeith palace: the earl of Morton’s seat, he remembered wryly. To his great surprise, his inquiries here were fruitful. A bairn had been found the day before, abandoned in the kirk. Since no one had come forth to claim him, the infant was to be fostered, pending fresh inquiry. At Hew’s request, the child was brought back to the church, clinging to his foster mother’s skirts.

  ‘Is this the bairn?’ the minister inquired.

  For the first time, Hew felt hope and certainty give way to sudden fear. He had been sure, beyond a doubt, the infant must be William. With the little boy in front of him, he no longer felt so certain.

  ‘Hercules, do you ken this man?’ the woman asked the child.

  ‘Hercules?’ echoed Hew, incredulous.

  ‘We did not ken his name,’ the woman said defensively.

  ‘My own good lady wife,’ the minister explained, ‘likes to name the orphan bairns. She can be a little fanciful. Tis likely, if we keep him, we shall plump for George.’

  Hew knelt to the floor, level with the child. ‘Do you know me, William?’ he asked gently. He looked into the small, closed face, for some small spark of Christian, in the wide grey eyes, in the soft curve of the mouth, and met with blankness.

  ‘He does not speak, no, not a word. It is an idiot child,’ the foster mother said, almost with a touch of pride. ‘But he is douce and brave; he disna greet.’

  ‘Is this not your nephew, then?’ the minister inquired, perplexed.

  ‘I confess,’ Hew answered helplessly. ‘I cannot tell.’ It did not sound like William, he reflected. He looked at the gude wife. ‘Have you cut his hair?’

  She nodded. ‘Aye, we always do. For lice.’

  ‘And you have changed his clothes?’

  She pursed her lips. ‘We had to burn his clothes. For they were torn to rags and thick with blood, and we were fearful of infection. It was not the bairn’s blood, though. There was not a mark on him.’

  Hew had an image in his mind, of Christian sewing ribbons to the sleeves of William’s gown. It must be William, surely, he convinced himself, if the clothes were stained with blood.

  ‘I have come to take you home,’ he whispered to the child. ‘Home to … Minnie, who has missed you.’ He had struggled to recall the baby name. On impulse, he picked up the little boy and held him close. The child did not resist, but in a moment placed his head upon Hew’s shoulder, and with a sigh clutched two small fists into the velvet of Hew’s cloak and closed his eyes.

  ‘He likes you, anyway,’ the minister observed, in clear relief.

  ‘Aye, I will take him.’ Hew fished in his pocket. ‘Here is something for the poor box, for his keep.’

  He could feel the child’s breath, hot on his neck, and the grip of the small fist assured him he was still awake, yet the little boy clung to him, motionless, a thin scrap of rags, hot in his hands.

  ‘Let us hope that you are William,’ he murmured to the child. ‘Or else, God help us both.’

  It was now too late to set off to Edinburgh; the gates would be locked before they could reach them. Hew returned to the inn where he had left the horse, and took a room for the night, with a lit de camp for himself and a small cot for William, no more than a blanket thrown over rags. The premises were neither clean nor comfortable, and with a sense of misgiving he took the little boy into the taproom. It was early still, yet the place was crowded, and a raucous game of dice was in progress by the bar. Hew found a quiet corner where he set the child upon a stool. He ordered a bowl of boiled mutton in broth and a cup of small beer for the child. Somehow, he persuaded the tapster to produce a jug of claret, bread and cheese, and a plate of roasted beef. The food was surprisingly good. William seemed content enough, for he drank down his broth, gazing all the while at Hew’s cup and plate, till Hew gave in and fed him scraps of beef, washed down with the rough watered wine. ‘Do not tell your mother, though,’ he winked at him. The child stared back solemnly, and Hew was in no doubt, he was no fool. William, full at last, wiped his smeary mouth upon his sleeve and slipped down from his stool towards the gaming tables, where the men were playing cards. Alarmed, Hew went after him, reaching for his hand. ‘You must not run off!’

  As he spoke, the dealer of the cards looked up, and catching sight of William, gave a start. The man turned round wildly, looking for escape. Hew caught his eye. It was Marten Voet, the card seller. And since the gaming tables, and the crowd of players, and Hew Cullan and the little boy stood between him and the door, he had no choice but to confront them. William stood, impassive, like a little ghost, his small hand resting quietly in Hew’s. And had he been a ghost, Marten Voet could not have been more terrified.

  ‘No, no, no,’ he cried at last. ‘You will not do that to me. I swear, he is not mine!’

  ‘You left him in the kirk,’ Hew answered quietly.

  ‘What else could I have done? Without I left him there, the parish would not take him. I am no monster. I have stayed to see him settled,�
�� Marten cried.

  ‘Then you are the cadger, who brought him to Kirk Liberton.’

  ‘What can I say, sir?’ the card seller whimpered. ‘I found him on the muir, and wish to God I’d left him there. He is the devil’s child.’

  He was afraid of William, so it seemed, yet William, clearly, had no fear of him. He had flopped down on the floor and was playing with a card that had been dropped.

  ‘He is my nephew,’ Hew said coldly.

  Marten crumpled in relief. ‘Your nephew? Thank the lord! Then you have him, sir. I found him at the roadside by the muir. And, God help me, I should have left him there if I had known the trouble he would cause.’

  ‘You do well enough without him,’ Hew observed shrewdly. A heap of coins lay on the table, close to the card seller’s hand.

  Marten’s opponent, who was drunk and losing heavily, took advantage of this fresh diversion to demand of Hew, ‘Do you know this man, sir? What do you say? Is he a cheat?’

  Hew rubbed his chin. ‘Indeed, I thought I knew him,’ he said thoughtfully, ‘and his name was Marten Voet. Now, it seems, he has a different name, and another set of lies.’

  ‘What’s that?’ The man staggered to his feet, swaying dangerously, ‘Are you a card jak? A swingeour?’

  The card seller gazed at Hew imploringly. ‘Do not do this, sir. Why do you hound me? If the bairn is your nephew, then I saved his life.’

  ‘I reserve judgement on that.’ Hew placed his hand on his sword. ‘Meanwhile, there is something we must settle. Perhaps you will return this man’s money, and share a quiet drink with me, where we are not overheard.’

  Marten saw no other way. Miserably, he pushed the pile of coins towards his opponent, who protested, ‘What are you, the law?’

  ‘Aye, I am the law,’ Hew answered smoothly. ‘And I am the kirk, where gaming is prohibited, as I’m sure you know. Take your losses, sir; your wife will thank you for them.’ He steered Marten back to their table in the corner, where he settled William firmly on his stool. ‘You will sit there,’ he instructed. ‘And you, sir, will sit there,’ he said to Marten Voet, pushing him down on a bench. ‘If you think of fighting, know that I am armed.’

  ‘Why should I want to fight you?’ Marten asked, bewildered. ‘I am a printer. I sell playing cards.’

  ‘Tell me what happened to the nurse,’ demanded Hew.

  ‘What nurse?’

  ‘The child went walking with his nursemaid on the borough muir. The nurse was killed,’ Hew said abruptly.

  ‘Dear God, is that what happened?’ Marten cried, aghast. ‘I swear, I saw no nurse. Do you think I would have taken him, if there had been a nurse? I found him wandering by the muir. And he was soaked and bloodied and his clothes were torn. It was the foulest night you ever saw, and I took him to the nearest church. They would not take him in. Can you imagine that? The bairn was soaked and starving and they would not take him in! What was I to do? I could not leave the child. I could not keep him.’

  ‘And so you left him here, abandoned in the church,’ reflected Hew.

  ‘They did not see us coming,’ Marten answered hopelessly. ‘It was all that I could do.’

  Marten’s tale rang true. ‘Aye, I believe you,’ Hew sighed at last. ‘Why did you change your name?’

  ‘I am deep in debt, sir,’ the card seller confessed. ‘There is a warrant in the name of Marten Voet, from Middelburg. And since Campvere is your staple overseas, they would send me back, and I would be imprisoned, if they caught me. When I saw you at the senzie fair, I swear, I did not lie to you. I told the truth about the inquisition. All my life, I have been running, hounded on from place to place. The last thing I should want – the very last thing, sir, would be a child.’

  ‘Aye, fair enough,’ acknowledged Hew.

  ‘Then you believe me, sir?’

  ‘Why not? It is a desperate tale. Where will you go now?’

  Marten looked incredulous. ‘You mean to let me go, sir?’

  ‘I see no reason not. You saved the child. And if you had not brought him from the roadside, in all probability he would have died. Here is money for your pains.’

  ‘I thank you more than I can tell you, sir.’ Marten seized the purse. He hesitated. ‘You think he saw it, then? The thing that you described?’

  ‘I think it very likely,’ Hew conceded grimly. ‘The boy is not a natural idiot. I fear he saw the slaughter, and it turned his wits.’

  ‘God save us,’ Marten muttered.

  ‘You should thank the Lord that William seems to like you.’

  ‘He is more at ease with me than I should like,’ the card seller owned ruefully. ‘I am well glad, in truth, to see the back of him.’

  A Pack of Lies

  Hew stripped the boy of his clothes and tucked him into the small bed of blankets. William made no objection, his head already drooping as his eyes began to close. It took Hew a little longer to find rest on the nearby pallet bed. He listened to the breathing of the child, soft and sighing by his side. Through the thin straw mattress he could feel the bare slats of the bed. The room felt cold, and he took the thickest blanket from his bed and tucked it over William. ‘What horrors have you seen?’ he asked the sleeping child. William gave no answer, sleeping on in silence, watered, warmed and fed. At last, Hew fell asleep, and as the morning broke he drifted into dreaming, closed in bed with Catherine, where their love was consummated, lapped in linen sheets. He awoke to a warm sweet wetness, and lay blissful in its comfort, sated and content, until a small limb thrust against his belly caught and winded him, and he realised that William had crept in beside him and had wet the bed.

  At breakfast, Hew considered the child, who was swallowing oatcakes and milk. His clothes were grubby and soiled, and his face was caked with last night’s broth, and what looked like the beginnings of a cold. He seemed a little rough around the edges, in a poor enough state to return to his mother. Since the alewife had two little daughters, Hew offered them a shilling each to make William more presentable. Meanwhile, he settled his account. Returning to the stable to saddle up his horse, he was startled by a wail, and saw William in the rain butt in a flood of tears. The little boy stood naked in all but his shirt, as the small girls drubbed and scolded, determined to have him come clean. Hew felt a pang of remorse. The coldness and indignity did not sit well with William, and his howls were fierce enough to scare the horses from their hay. Hew ran to his rescue, snatching up the child. William, still wet, heaved a sigh, and laid a damp head on Hew’s shoulder, grasping his coat with his fists. ‘We men must stick together,’ Hew advised him guiltily. The little girls tutted like fishwives, their hands on incipient hips.

  With William dried and dressed, Hew collected the red roan and prepared to mount. The child struggled fiercely, and refused to sit, until the alewife pointed out that he was clearly frightened of the horse. She brought out a length of woollen plaid, which she wrapped around the bairn, tying him to Hew, so that Hew could hold him safely in his lap without dropping his hands from the reins. Hew could feel the small boy tense and quiver, and the small, tight beating of his heart. He hoped, sincerely, William would not feel the urge to piss on him.

  ‘Now we are going home,’ he told the little boy, ‘and you will see Minnie again. You remember Michael, Phillip, and the shop? You remember Walter?’ Alison, he almost said, do you remember Alison, raped and murdered on the muir? ‘Minnie will be waiting for you,’ he went on. ‘She will be so happy to see you, that you can’t imagine. It will make her cry. But you mustn’t mind that, because …’

  The little boy was looking up, with solemn grey eyes that showed no understanding. If he remembered Minnie, it did not show in his face. Hew felt at a loss. ‘You must remember Minnie. She is slight and fair, with narrow feet and hands. Her eyes are grey, like yours, that in a certain lamplight turn to palest blue; she has fine, unruly hair, that will not stay inside its cap but is always falling down; and a light dust of freckles, sprinkling her nose, like a sh
aking of spice, and a low, sweet voice, that will sing you to sleep with lullabies, and tell you stories by the fireside when the day draws dark and you both are tired; and her tread is firm, yet light and soft, and she has the sweetest scent and smile …’

  And so he spoke on softly, and disclosed his inner thoughts, unconscious and unheard, not knowing what he said. William had fallen asleep, lulled by the sway of the horse.

  Coming to the city’s gates, Hew began to feel afraid. The little boy stirred. What if he were wrong, and the bairn was not William? What if he were wrong?

  He dismounted at the west port and left the horse outside, where Richard kept him stabled, lifting the child in his arms. William murmured sleepily. Still wrapped in the plaid, he carried the child along the Cowgate, and up Blackfriars wynd towards the netherbow. He did not go into the shop, but turned instead into the stairway that led up the house, pushing open the door. Christian was lying on a bed before the fire, with Meg at her side. They both looked up, startled at the sound. Hew let the child slip gently to the floor, where he stood unsteadily, blinking at the light. Meg began to speak as Christian screamed.

  Christian screamed, and Hew knew at once that he had been mistaken, that the small boy was not William. He stepped back in a chasm of darkness. What he had done, no mother could forgive: the child was not William. Then he saw Christian laugh and cry, crying, laughing, all at once, the small boy fiercely clutching at her flaxen hair, the little face washed with wet kisses and tears. As Hew drew back, his sister cried, ‘However did you find him, Hew?’

  ‘Is it the right bairn?’ he said foolishly. ‘Is it William?’

  Meg stared at him. ‘Of course it is! Surely, you knew him! For pity though!’ She realised, smiling, ‘You didn’t, did you? You’re a man.