1588 A Calendar of Crime

by Shirley McKay

‘A pennyworth of candie for a miller’s bairn is a poor treat fer a king,’ Robert Lachlan said.

  ‘Do not toy with me. I will find you out.’

  Matthew did not like the man’s tone of voice. He did not like menace that was meant to Hew, or the fact his uncle took it so calmly. He felt it fell to him to disarm the threat, as his father would have done. He had heard his parents say his Uncle Hew was stubborn, and that Robert Lachlan was spoiling for a fight. And so he tried to help. ‘Did you say,’ he asked the man, ‘that it would be fine, for the king to have a feast? If a king came here?’

  Alan Petrie stared at him, as though he discovered for the first time in his life that a gnat could talk, and was not impressed by it. ‘It wid be,’ he agreed.

  Matthew beamed bright with relief. ‘That is a’ right, then,’ he said. ‘For the king will come here, at Uphalyday.’

  His uncle frowned at him. ‘Matthew,’ he began.

  Matthew said quickly, ‘Did you forget, Uncle Hew? We made a cake for him.’

  Then his uncle smiled. ‘The bairn is right,’ he said. ‘The king will be among us at the twelvetide feast. It had slipped my mind.’

  ‘Is that right?’ said the man, his eyes dark with doubt. ‘I had not heard it said he was expected here.’

  ‘It is common knowledge,’ answered Hew.

  The man said he would put the matter to the provost, and would come again. That should have been the end of it, for he was meant to go. But when Matthew and John Kintor went back for the log they found that Alan Petrie had not left the premises. He was at the still house, peering through the lock. John Kintor cursed. ‘He is still here, despite the Yule girth.’

  ‘What is the girth?’ Matthew asked.

  ‘It is a kind of sanctuary, protecting men at Christmas, from paying for their crimes.’ Suddenly, John grinned. ‘Though he shall pay for his.’ He took off the sling he wore around his waist for picking off the crows, and the pouch of pellets hanging from his belt. John Kintor was a sure, and a ruthless, shot. He took careful aim, and peppered Alan Petrie from his buttocks to his calves.

  It did not end well. Alan Petrie bellowed, limping to the house, and the din he made brought the family out. Though Robert Lachlan sniggered, Uncle Hew did not. He paid money to the man, who hobbled back to town, promising a cold and particular revenge. Then he spoke to John Kintor, with a queer, quiet kind of anger that made Matthew want to cry, and to want his father there. He did not like to think what it felt like to be John, who was too old to cry, and whose father was dead. Hew told him it was not the behaviour that he wanted, or expected, in a factor of his house. It did not help when John Kintor mentioned the Yule girth, in his own defence. ‘That is an argument I put, to protect this house, and the people in it,’ answered Hew. ‘You have turned it to your own wilful end, to commit a crime, that brings disgrace to us. It was an unkind and cowardly act. I am ashamed of you. And let me tell you this: though you may be free from penalty of law, you are not free from mine.’ Matthew heard no more, for his mother came and took him to the house. He put his hand in hers and did not look back.

  When his uncle came, he had John Kintor’s sling with him. He left it in the library, next to Gavan’s book. Two of the farmhands brought in the log, and settled it into the grate. John Kintor did not help, and when the tenants came to see the great fire lit, he was not among them. Matthew did not ask what had happened to him. In his bed, he imagined terrible things. He could hear, through a curtain in the closet next to him, his mother singing to Martha. Martha could not sleep. Her head was filled with Yule. She told Minnie all the songs and carols they had learned, which were meant for a surprise. Matthew wanted Giles. He wanted to sit in his lap, and to have him explain, in confounding and comfortable words, all the things he did not understand.

  But his father was not there. And his mother was with Martha, soothing her to sleep. Matthew left his bed and went down in his shirt. The Yule stock was alight. But there was no one there but Frances, peaceful at its side, with Flora at her breast. Frances smiled at him. ‘Can you not sleep?’

  ‘Where is my uncle Hew?’ he said.

  ‘He has gone out. He will not be long.’

  ‘He is at the mill.’

  ‘Yes.’

  Matthew felt a blaze of anger, burning like the log. ‘It is my mill,’ he said. ‘My uncle gave it to me, for my christening gift.’

  Frances said, ‘I know.’

  ‘Then he cannot, he should not.’ He felt that there were tears, pricking at his throat, trying to spill out.

  ‘Come and sit by me,’ Aunt Frances said.

  ‘Will John Kintor not be factor any more?’

  ‘He will not be factor yet. He has more to learn.’ It was Frances, after all, who had picked him out. ‘He is not ready now,’ she said.

  ‘But he will be, soon. He wanted to protect us. He did it for you, for the house and land, and his little niece. It was not for himself.’ He wanted her to see.

  Frances said, ‘I know.’

  ‘But my uncle said–’

  ‘Your uncle knows it also. But it is his job to protect us all. Because we are his family, he will keep us safe. We belong to him. John Kintor, too,’ Frances said.

  II

  Yule day fell on Sunday, and the family went to kirk. Since the sky was clear, Hew said they would walk, to allow the horses to enjoy a holiday. But Matthew thought it was because the grooms were drunk. He had heard Bella say her husband Robert Lachlan had been drinking in the Yule, with the vicious one that Matthew did not like. They were still in bed when the rest set out. Bella stayed behind, to look after Flora and her own bairn Billy, who had caught the mumps. Or that was what she said. Really, it was to prepare the dinner board, for Bella did not care about the Sabbath much. The Kintors also stayed, to Matthew’s fresh alarm. John was in the yard, tending to his pigs, when they passed the mill. He did not seem to mind, but smiled at them and waved.

  The walk to town was long, and Matthew’s legs were tired. When Martha girned and flagged, their uncle carried her. He could not be expected to carry Matthew too. And Matthew did not want him to. He scuffed his Sunday shoes, trailing through the dust. His mother noticed, but said only, ‘You are cross today.’

  Matthew fell behind, and would not take her hand. ‘Why does John Kintor not come to the kirk?’ he asked.

  ‘Your uncle thought it better he should stay at home.’

  Hew’s kirk was the chapel of St Leonard’s in the South Street. But today he came with them to the Holy Trinity, the grand kirk in the centre of the town. It was bursting full with men and wives and bairns. Some had brought their dogs. Matthew’s spirits lifted when he saw his father there. He ran to his embrace, burying his head in the tippet round his neck, which was made of fur. He heard his father asking, ‘Trouble?’ to the air, and his mother’s answer. ‘Later,’ she replied.

  There were stools and settles brought, so no one had to stand. Frances sat with Meg, with Martha in her lap. Matthew sat on the settle next to his father, though he understood a stool was meant for him. Hew sat there instead. ‘The cukstule,’ he said, and winked, as though he was tickled at his own disgrace. Matthew turned his face deliberately away.

  It was very rowdy in the kirk. The service began with several texts and readings by the elders of the kirk. One of those expected failed to take his place, which was unexplained, and not like him at all, Matthew heard the people say. He also heard the name, which was Alan Petrie. He peeped back to see if Hew had heard it too, but his uncle had a look of blankness on his face, almost of stupidity. Matthew saw the provost standing by the pulpit talking to the crownar Andrew Wood. That was very bad, and he had a glimpse of understanding why John Kintor had been telt to remain at home. Matthew knew the provost and the crownar well. Andrew Wood he feared. He came to the house, and never for the good, for his coming meant there was an unexpected death. His father then would have to go away, to certify the death, and explain the cause. The provost and the crownar bot
h held courts of law. The crownar was the sheriff too, and his court was the worst. He could hang a man.

  Now both men looked at Hew. And Matthew knew exactly what was in their thoughts. They were speaking of the man who had come to Kenly Green, on the provost’s work, and had been shot by John. Where was Alan now?

  Matthew knew his uncle must be thinking the same thing. How then could he sit so very straight and still?

  His father looked at him. ‘Fiddle fyke,’ he said. ‘You are a fidge today.’

  ‘Dadda,’ Matthew said, ‘can a man be killed by a bruise on the buttock?’

  ‘I sincerely hope not. Why, do you have one?’

  Matthew shook his head.

  ‘Well then, sit still.’

  Matthew was quiet for a moment. Then he asked, ‘Why has the crownar come to kirk today? He does not stay here.’

  ‘As I understand it, he is spending Yule at his late brother’s house.’

  ‘I do not like him,’ Matthew said.

  His father answered sadly. ‘Not many people do.’

  ‘When kirk is over, can we go back home?’

  ‘Not today, my love. We are going to spend the Yule with Hew at Kenly Green.’

  ‘I dinna want to go. I want to stay at home, with you an Canny Bett.’ It came out louder, and more crossly, than Matthew had intended. His father frowned, and tsked.

  ‘What is this passion, now? You cannot stay at home. Canny will come too. What is the matter with you?’

  Matthew could not say. He did not have the words for the quailing in his heart. He said what he believed came almost close to it, but was not it at all. ‘I have the belly-thraw.’

  It was not the sort of thing he liked to tell his father, for he never told the doctor he was feeling ill. His remedies were sore. If Matthew had a pain, his mother made it well.

  But his father understood. ‘That is a vulgar name for it. I do not like it much. But I do not think that that is what you mean. In my opinion, you are stomachit. That is to say, in common parlance, you are in a mood.’ He lifted Matthew up, and sat him in his lap, where he found his quick heart comforted, and stilled.

  He was settled there when the minister began. His sermon made no mention of the Lord’s nativity, until the very end, when he looked round the kirk. ‘Some of ye today, SOME OF YE TODAY,’ he roared, in his usual way, ‘have been out in the street, crying for the Yule. In the very kirkyard, yea, the very kirk. Now, do not deny it, I have heard ye all, and God has heard ye too. Now some of ye, in ignorance, are poor benighted bairns, and ye will not ken whence has come that cry. You think it “Jubile”. It is my duty now, to put that wrang to right. It came about like this. Once there was a man that came to hang his dug on December twenty-fifth. Now that is a day, that some of ye will say is the Lord’s nativity. I say fie to that. For if we mark the day our Lord was born, then why wid we not mark the day of his conception, in a Papish way? Your Christmas is but one sorry slip away. Be that as it might, he came to hing his dug upon that very day the ignorant among ye cry for Christmastide. But when he cut it doon again, the auld dug wis alive. As ye might well suppose, the devil took it then. The auld dug ran awa’ and as it went, it howled, yool, yool, YOOL. And that, sirs, is the meaning of the Yule ye cry. Tis nothing in it signifies the word of Christ or God, but it is the havers of a half-deid dug. Ool, OOL, OOOOOOOOL.’

  The last line of the ools, rousing up the kirk to thunderous applause, stirred the napping dogs, whose howling proved its point. The Yule day sermon ended in a pandemonium, the people and the dogs spilling to the streets. Matthew felt a reckless, giddy spill of joy. He could not still the laughter bubbling up in him. The provost and the crownar both had disappeared, and he was looking forward now to dinnertime. He dared ask Uncle Hew if John Kintor would be there. His uncle said, ‘Of course.’

  Both the bairns were skittish on the way back home, as though some sudden wind had been unleashed in them. People in the farms they passed bid them a guid Yule, and every time they did, Matthew and his sister rolled their eyes and howled, pretending to be dogs, until their mother warned them that they must desist, or there would be no cake or pudding at the feast. Then they sank instead into a fit of giggles, while their mother sighed, and thanked the country neighbours for their kind intent. She called out to their father once or twice for help, but he was deep in conversation with her brother Hew. Matthew did not stop to wonder what they said. He felt his heart was light, his spirits whole again.

  ‘I am no longer stomachit,’ he said.

  His mother said she saw, but it was good to hear.

  He did not think that anything could spoil his silly happiness, until he saw the shadow of the horse, when they were a mile or so from his uncle’s house. It came upon them swiftly like a cloud. The rider overtook them, and turned the horse around. It was Sir Andrew Wood. He did not leave his mount, but looked down to Hew. ‘I came to look for you.’

  ‘You have found me,’ answered Hew.

  ‘By your leave,’ the crownar said, ‘I will follow to your house.’

  It was Frances who replied, ‘You are welcome there. If you have no friends who wait for you at home, stay and dine with us.’

  ‘I thank you,’ said the crownar. ‘But the call is not a social one. I will not keep you long.’

  ‘But surely,’ Frances said, ‘you do not work today.’

  ‘I do not mark the Yule,’ the crownar said.

  ‘I meant the Sabbath, sir.’

  Sir Andrew laughed. ‘A strake. The lady has a point.’ He turned again to Hew. ‘But you are quiet, sir.’

  ‘I am wondering,’ said Hew, ‘what business brings you here, when it cannot it be the business of a court, that does not sit in session in this time.’

  ‘I have heard your argument. It amuses me. You have claimed Yule Girth. Yesterday I heard two complaints of it. First there was a man with a flesh wound in his buttock, who complained of an assault suffered on your lands, while he went about his lawful line of work. He showed to me the pellet that the surgeon had pulled out. Then he showed his arse. I dismissed them both. Next there was the provost from the town. He was somewhat vexed at what happened to his man. He does not hate your house. His hope was but to raise some money for the poor.’

  ‘That he may have, and gladly,’ Matthew’s uncle said. ‘I will pay to him whatever fine he likes, if he will be content to let the matter drop. His man was too officious, but did not deserve the treatment he received from us, and I am sorry for it. I have made amends. If he remains unsatisfied, he shall profit further from the hurt he got, for which I take the blame.’

  ‘He will profit further, if he can be found. He has disappeared.’ The crownar yawned. ‘None of this interests me, Hew. I do not care a bean if ye keep the Yule or no. I am not the Kirk. Nor I am concerned with these small assaults. Whip your servants soundly, if they must offend, or let them come and plead before the burgh courts, when the Yule is done.’

  ‘I thank you for your interest, and lack of it,’ said Hew. ‘Why, then, have you come?’

  ‘To have from you an intelligence, of particular concern. The provost tells me you expect a visit from the king. That is news to me. And news to all his friends. The king gives out no word he is expected here. What is the purpose of his visit?’

  Matthew felt his heart leaping in his breast so tremulous and quick he thought it would break out. He thought his uncle Hew must give his part away. But Hew did not discover him, in word or in look. He said simply, and mildly, ‘Oh. That.’

  ‘Aye, that,’ the crownar said.

  ‘Well, you know,’ Hew said. ‘The thing is delicate.’

  ‘I understand you. We will talk in private at your home.’

  Sir Andrew Wood was satisfied. He was even pleased. He made his horse walk slow, so they could walk beside it. ‘Perhaps,’ he said, ‘your bairns would like to ride with me.’

  Matthew clasped tightly to his sister’s hand, willing her to grasp the danger he conveyed. Something of
it caught, for Martha shook her head.

  ‘Neither of ye, then?’

  They were coming to the mill, lying in the lea of the country tower house, next to the cottage where the Kintors lived. John Kintor was no longer outside in the yard. But there was something else, lying in the grass not far from the pen. It was not a pig, though the upper part of it was pinker than a ham.

  The crownar Andrew Wood had seen it from his horse. It did not take him long to work out what it was. He was on it first, in long, forceful strides. He had left his horse tethered to a post before the others saw him beginning to dismount. He lifted up the thing that was not a pig by what looked like the flaps of a coat. ‘Superfluous cheer. He found none, I doubt.’

  Frances had already hurried Martha to the house. His mother tried to take him too. But Matthew pulled away.

  Sir Andrew Wood called for the doctor. ‘He is still limp. Warm, even. But hopeless, I think.’

  Matthew’s father said, ‘There is blood and bruising round his nose and mouth. Something in his throat.’ He felt with his hands, and something small flew out. ‘That is it,’ he said.

  The crownar picked it up. ‘It is like the pellet that was in his arse.’

  Matthew cried, ‘No. It is not.’

  His mother had hold of him. ‘Come away, Matthew.’

  ‘He has seen it, Meg. It must be explained,’ his father said. His voice held a terrible sadness. His hands had the purple thing in them, that was a man with a face.

  John Kintor’s brother came out from the mill. ‘Jesu,’ he said.

  ‘Where is your brother? Ask him to come here,’ said Hew.

  John Kintor’s brother said, ‘You dinna think–’

  Matthew cried out, ‘It was not him.’ He broke from his mother, and ran towards the house. He could not see for tears.

  The crownar had prerogative, as sheriff of Fife, to hang a man he found in the act of murder there. In this case, with the corpse still warm and the perpetrator near, he felt there was no case for further trial. He arrested John Kintor for the redhand slaughter of Alan Petrie, and sentenced him to die on December 26.