Walter shook his head. He saw through her tricks. The disappointment soured her. ‘Ye will not leave me here, to labour on ma ain? Suppose there is a crowd?’
She knew as well as he did that there would not be a crowd, until four or five. But it took her by surprise when Walter Bone replied, ‘Give poor Geordie there another stoup of ale, and ye may go till four. Close the door when ye gang. I will be back in an hour.’
She could not believe her good fortune. ‘Go to the fair?’
‘Did I not say so? Here.’ He gave her two bright pennies from the counter cash box. ‘Buy a wee treat to yerself.’
It was her due, was it not? The money no more than her worth. Her pleasure in the fee eclipsed all sense of guilt. Marie smiled at Geordie as she filled his cup.
Walter Bone made his way up Kirk Heugh. He did not go at once to the house on the South Street where the woman was who made up his pills. She might be at the fair. He hoped that she was not. He might find her at the market close to the apothecar, stocking up on spices, sugarloaf and herbs. He would not purchase physic she did not prescribe; he trusted her. The medicines she distilled for the torment in his bones brought him some relief. They could not yet dispel the underlying cause. Relief was transitory. And, when it returned, the hurt was sharper, crueller than before. He had not telt a lie to Marie about the pain. But for Elspet, he could have borne it, he thought. He could have borne much more.
It strained him to walk up the hill. The market was in full thrang, in the mercat place. But at the west sands, by the golf links, there were sports and games, and races on the shore, while the tide was low. In mid-water, there were horses chasing through the spray. And up at the butts were archery contests, for young boys and men in all stages of life. Walter Bone had never taken part. The gripping in his banes had afflicted him since childhood. Yet he was a sharp man, no less; it had not afflicted his mind.
IV
Henry Balfour too was going to the fair. He had left his college at the end of term, and moved across the street with the regent Robert Black. He looked forward to a summer of adventure and excess. If the Spanish came, he would take up arms, and place himself where practical upon the winning side. Meanwhile he would ride and spend time with his lass. The future augured well, despite prognostications that the world would end. Breakfast had been served. Henry had an egg, herrings and a cheese, while Robert’s interest in his bread and ale was watered by the tone of the letter in his hand, which he read aloud with increasing gloom. ‘Your father’s word is clear. And though I find the manner of it somewhat strict and strained, I cannot in good conscience let you go against it, while you are in my care,’ he said.
Henry took advantage of his tutor’s loss of appetite to relieve him of the best part of his bread. He was not at all dismayed by the thunder of a father who was far away, when he had a summer’s day in hand. He pointed out simply, ‘He does not prohibit the fair.’
‘Not,’ conceded Robert, ‘in so many words.’
‘When there are so many words, you can be quite certain that his silence is assent.’
Robert hesitated. He suspected Henry’s father would make short work of that argument. ‘Does he even ken there is a fair today?’
Henry said, ‘He has sent a present of a bow. At Lammas there are always contests at the butts. Therefore he must mean that I should try it there. I am sure to win.’
The bow was a reward for passing the black stane, where Henry had received, on his third attempt, his bachelor’s degree. Henry had shown promise through the years in archery, the only distraction which his parent had approved. And it was more than likely he would take the prize.
‘Well, you may go,’ Robert Black agreed, ‘if you give your word to me that you will not converse or meddle with your lass in any secret place. Though she is free and willing, please remember this. Your father will not furnish you a fart for buttock-mail.’ Lord Balfour knew his son, perhaps a little better than his son knew him, and a full page of his letter was devoted to a case which, should it arise, would not be well received.
‘I noticed he said that,’ Henry took a pat of butter on his knife, and smeared in on the bread, ‘and wondered what he meant. What is buttock-mail? Is it like a flankart, armour for the arse?’
‘It is the penalty you pay for the sin of fornication, as no doubt you ken,’ Robert answered grimly. ‘The wages of sin. But that is futling in respect of the cost to you, if you are found out. Your father will disown you, and the college too. It will be the ruin of you, and me as well, no doubt. I make no mention of the lass, for her welfare must fall to your conscience, as yours does to mine.’
Henry had not looked for, and had not expected, so severe a lecture on the first day of his holiday, and Robert was encouraged when he looked a bit abashed. Less so, when he said, ‘Oh, but we are careful.’
‘Careful not to sin, or that you are not caught?’
Henry answered vaguely, ‘Aye, for certain, that.’
‘To that end,’ Robert said, ‘come back here by nine. I will not have you prey to the evils of the night. Otherwise, you have my blessing and my trust.’
‘I thank you for your kindness, sir. I will keep your trust,’ Henry said.
He showed he had a gentle heart, and Robert Black was pleased, for he believed that with a steady hand, Henry would be set upon a constant path, naturally inclined to follow what was right. The father was at fault. Savage yet indulgent, both severe and lax, he had set a course designed to ruin the boy.
Henry, nothing daunted, went to meet his lass. His converse with her secret place was fairly well advanced, a fluency which he thought wise to hide from Robert Black. But he supposed that Robert meant they should not leave the crowd.
Dozens of young men were gathered in the market place, looking for employment from the factors and the farmers who judged them on experience, provenance and strength. Bargains were made quickly, and were sealed with drink, before the chosen ones took their pick themselves of the giggling lassies waiting in the ranks. Henry found the company, of country lads and lasses let loose from their bounds, a rough and rowdy one. He looked for Mary through the crowd, and found her with her baskets by the butter tron. Beside her was a woman who was full with child, and a little boy with a filthy face. Mary caught his eye, and left the woman’s side, taking up the small boy by the hand. Henry sensed a straining in her smile. Perhaps she felt, like him, uneasy at the herd. She did not offer up a kiss. Instead she whispered to him, ‘What have ye got on?’
‘Do you like it?’ Henry said. Mary had not seen him out of scholar’s weeds. He had dressed that morning in a dark green hunting coat his father had sent up. It was made of fair fine cloth, and cut to flatter him, with a trail of ivy quilted in the sleeve. Lord Balfour had devoted far more thought to choosing it than Henry had that morning when he put it on. The king would be at Falkland for the summer months, and Henry might be called upon to join him at the hunt. The colour of the coat would show off his dark looks, with no thread of gold to cause the king offence. Then Henry might look forward to a place at court. They were close in age.
Though Henry was aware of his father’s hopes, he did not care for them. He lived for the day, and took chance where it came. The moment was the fair, and he wore the coat because the cut allowed him to move freely with his bow. He thought it good but plain. It perplexed him to find Mary fingering the cuff, tracing with her fingers through the fine relief, as though she had not come across such delicate embroidery. ‘It’s awfy fine,’ she answered him, uncertainly.
‘Fine it is,’ he said. ‘But who is this?’ He gestured to the bairn, a squat, stolid child, who stared back, unsmiling.
‘This is wee Jock, my sister’s boy. Big Jock is my daddie,’ Mary said.
The naming of Big Jock caused Henry some alarm. Mary had not mentioned him by name before. He wondered, fleetingly, just how big he was. ‘Has your father come here to the fair?’ he asked.
Mary shook her head. ‘He disnae like to, since my mother died
. It was here they met.’
Henry answered, ‘Oh,’ conscious his relief ought not to be expressed. There were complications here he had not met before, and he felt, for the moment, out of his depth.
‘Jockie has been hoping he will see the puppet play.’
Mary’s meaning dawned on Henry, showing in his face. She anticipated quickly, ‘Tis only for a while, until the eggs are gone. They’re sure to sell today. My sister had been guid enough to take the stand till then.’
Henry glanced back at the sister by the butter tron. The eyes she returned to him were shadowed and unfriendly. Mary’s sister served her as both mother and a friend. She had taught her all that Mary knew of men. Which was quite a lot. Henry was obliged to her. Yet he found no warmth of welcome in her face. He could easily have bought the whole stock of her eggs, freeing her to see the puppets with her son. The thought occurred at once, and he almost acted on it. Good sense held him back. For it would have seemed that he was buying Mary, and he would not for the world have it look like that. The eggs he had no want of would be left to lie, snatched up by the gulls or splattered at the stocks. For Mary and her hens, they were of some worth, and Henry did not care to cheapen her, or them. And so he took the bairn on with a gracious nod, to trail them in their pleasures like a spectre at the feast.
There were no puppet players at the fair that day. But Jockie saw a monkey in a velvet coat, and two Egyptian tumblers burling over hoops. He saw a juglar slice off his own nose and restore it whole again. Henry had once seen a pickpocket cropped of his nose at the cross, with a less happy result, and did not find the magic quite so entertaining. He yawned when the juglar brought out yards of silk, in every rainbow colour, streaming from his mouth, and when he fished a groat out of Jockie’s ear. Jockie gulped and gawped, but did not speak a word.
‘Can the bairn not talk?’ Henry asked.
‘He is five years old. Of course he can,’ Mary said.
Jock was like no bairn that Henry was acquainted with, of the gentle sort. His flat, sullen face, like the face of the monkey he had prodded with a stick, had the fixed expression of a hardened labourer. Nothing could effect in him a movement of excitement. He was gloomy as a butcher at the start of Lent. Henry bought a whistle for him, and some sooking candy twisted in a poke. Jockie sucked on both, adamantly grim.
The fair was sweaty, foul and raucous. Henry smelt around him the ripeness of the crowd, rancid flesh and fish blackened over coals, sickly fruits and sweetmeats curdled in the sun. The shows were surrounded by stalls, spilling from the market square to the wynds and lanes and further to the South Street. A ballad singer sang a song against the Pope, pleasing to the kirk in whose yard he stood. The fiddle and the drums and the pipes were played. Chapmen cried their wares: ribbons, tinsels, lace. Mary paused to look.
‘Let me buy you something. Ribands, or a handkerchief. A hat,’ Henry said, uncertain what might please her, in amongst the trash.
Mary shook her head.
‘Well then, a book.’
Mary hesitated. She liked to hear him read to her, for she had not had the chance to learn to read herself. His voice was fine, and grand, she said. It was part of the pattern of the nights they spent together. She asked him to speak Latin once, but Henry had refused. He had enough of that at the university. She had wanted to attend his last examinations, to cheer him in the schools. ‘If they are public, why can’t I?’
‘Because you are a lass,’ Henry had explained. He found a stall with books and pamphlets. ‘Here is one for you. A Thousand Things of Note.’ To last a thousand nights, he thought, a thousand conversations, written in the sheets.
‘A thousand,’ Mary said, ‘sounds an awfy lot.’
‘Not near enough, for you.’ He bought the book and gave it to her, as the piper in the square broke off, announcing that the games on the sands would soon begin. ‘Now I will try my bow, and win you a prize.’
Coming to the links in a fresh sea breeze Henry felt relaxed and once more in his element. He had shot and hunted since he was a child, on horseback and on foot, and had long refined and tuned his natural skill. He was sure and strong, both in hand and foot. The targets where he practised each week during term were bairns’ play to him. He could spear a bird or a sprinting hind, delicate in flight. The farmhands and cowherds, surpassing him in strength, wanted his finesse, the sureness of his eye, his cool and steady hand, his confidence and nerve. It did not exercise him to secure the prize. He had it closed in sight, when a voice behind him said, ‘A braw bow, is that. ‘
Henry straightened up, and turned to face his foe. He saw a fair young man, older by some years and taller than himself, glaring at his back. He answered pleasantly. ‘Aye, indeed it is.’
‘Awbody might win, wi a bow like that,’ the challenger complained.
‘Would you like to try?’ Henry smiled at him. He offered up the bow in his gracious hand. ‘Three shots at the papingo. Whoever hits the eye, he shall take the prize.’
The other man backed off. ‘The contest isnae fair, for you are used to it.’
‘Then you shall have your pick, and I will take my chance with any bow you like.’ Henry looked around. The course was well equipped with racks of common bows, for anyone to use who had not brought his own. Henry was accustomed to the college armoury, and could well adapt. His own bow, on the other hand, had been made for him, and worked to best advantage solely in his hands. When he picked it up, he blessed his father’s gift, and was overcome with filial love and sympathy. There could be no way to make this contest fair, as his opponent knew. For Henry had the privilege of birth.
His opponent’s pride was spared by the lass beside him, clutching at his sleeve. ‘Michael, will you come? We are going to miss the races on the shore. You promised you would run for me.’
‘Aye, my love, I will. You shall have a ribbon for to pin upon your sleeve. Will you come race, then?’ Michael asked Henry.
Henry said grandly, ‘With my horse, gladly; by no means on foot.’ He collected his prize, of a silver pin, and gave it to his lass. But he was disappointed when she passed it to the bairn.
‘Who was that?’ she asked.
‘Some presumptuous loun, who thought to snatch your prize. I have seen the lassie at the harbour inn. I do not ken her name.’
Mary pulled a face. ‘At the harbour inn? Why do you go there? It is a filthsum place. No better than a bordal-house, so my sister says.’
Henry said, ‘I don’t. I went once last year, to play a game of dice. The company was low. I did not go again. But I’m sure I saw her there. She has the sort of face a man does not forget.’
Mary snorted, ‘Face. For sure it was her face.’
‘Do not be that like. You know that I have eyes for no one else but you. I only caught a glimpse of her.’
‘You were lucky then, if that was all you caught.’
He liked that she was jealous. He had felt her cooling to him, on this summer’s day. He yearned to be alone with her, in some secret spot. ‘This bairn must want his mother now,’ he said. ‘And you and I shall find a place quiet from the crowd.’
Mary nodded. ‘Aye, we should.’ Her answer gave him hope. They took her nephew back to his mother at the tron. All the eggs were sold. Mary spoke a word, and listened, to her sister. Henry heard her promise her, ‘I will not be long.’ The sister glanced at Henry, heavy with mistrust. Jockie’s hands were sticky, and she wiped them on her skirt.
‘Succar candie,’ Henry said. ‘If his teeth are rotten, I have several cures.’ She did not meet his smile.
‘Where will we go?’ Mary asked. ‘Not to the inn, at this hour?’
‘Walk with me,’ said Henry. ‘I know of a place.’
He took her by the hand, landward through the South Street to St Leonard’s fields.
‘Suppose someone sees us?’ she said.
‘It belongs to the college. But the college is closed up, and the principal away. There is no one but the farmer and the tenants of
the land. And all of them are absent at the Lammas fair. Come, lie down with me. No one can see us in amongst the rigs.’
They were in a barley field, a shiver of green stalks that shimmered in the sun. Henry spread his coat between the rows of corn. ‘Lie with me,’ he said.
‘I cannot,’ Mary said. ‘I have not come prepared.’
There were herbs she used, and pessaries of wax. Henry did not know how it was she came by them, and had never asked. It fell to a woman not to get with child. Some women chose to snare a man, and caught him in a trap. But Henry knew that Mary was not of that sort.
He lay down on his back and looked up at the sky. Mary sat beside him.
‘Lie with me awhile,’ he said. ‘For there are other ways. I can show restraint.’
She laughed at that. ‘You? You never can.’
It was true enough. He rolled on to his front to disguise it from her. ‘I will read to you. From the notable things. One fact for a kiss. Four facts for a—’
‘You are bad,’ Mary said. It was a compliment that she had paid before. But now her voice was sad. And Henry at that moment was quite certain what he felt for her. It was more than lust, though he ached with that. It was more than the delusion of a tender boy, scribbled in the margins of his copy book. At Martinmas, I met a lass, At Candlemas I kissed her, At Whitsuntide, I lay with her, At Lammas tide, I loved her. It was deep and true.
To still the rush of blood, in heart as well as groin, he opened up the book. ‘Here is one. Stop both your ears with your fingers, and the hiccup will go away within a while after.’
‘How long is a while?’ Mary asked.
‘He does not say. But he swears tis proved. Now you owe me a kiss.’
Henry broke a wisp of barley from its stalk and fell to tickling her. She wriggled from his grasp. ‘I do love you,’ she said.
He sensed, unthinking then, the cloud behind the words. He knew there was a but. He fell back in the grass, and looked up at the blue of a cloudless summer sky. He felt at once, instinctively, what she had to say. He closed his eyes and tried to block it out, to feel the sun, the breath of barley graze him on the cheek, to hear the mellow doves, the murmur of the bees.
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