Hew picked up the pepper pot. ‘And here is written, Beatrix van der Straeten, begijnhof sint Elisabeth te Gent. I have heard of the begijnhof, which commonly in French is called the beguinage. It is a women’s convent. Has the package come from there, or is it a direction, do you think?’
‘To send reformers’ text into a convent may seem contrary,’ Giles observed.
‘You may think so; I should count it pertinent,’ said Hew. ‘Though we may never know, unless we read the rest. I don’t suppose you ken the Flemish tongue? You keep a high Dutch grammar in your rooms.’ He had come across the book wedged in the cupboard door, where it appeared to be a prop to hold a broken catch.
‘High Dutch, not low. Though to be frank . . .’ said Giles.
‘Tis not Frank, but Flemish,’ Hew corrected with a grin.
‘To speak frankly,’ Giles continued, undeterred, ‘I am a beginner. Some years ago, I met with Adam Lonicer, town physician at Frankfurt am Main. He is an herbistare of some renown. We have since corresponded, generally in Latin, and in recent months I consulted him on Meg. He was kind enough to send a copy of his Kreuterbuch, which last edition he has written in his vulgar tongue. And so I was resolved to learn the Dutch, though partly as a courtesy, in greater part because . . .’
‘If Jacob was the captain, then he left his hat behind,’ Hew was no longer listening. ‘I cannot think that Jacob was the captain; for first of all, he was too young, and secondly, his clothes . . .’
‘Masters, we can hold the ship no longer,’ a voice called from the deck. ‘We will have to loose the clips, or she will drag as down. Make haste, or else ye maun jump.’
Hew glanced across at Giles. ‘Then we must set our hopes on what we found. Tis pity, that we cannot broach the steerage room.’
‘Do not attempt it,’ warned his friend. ‘Meg will not forgive us if we go down with the ship. I dare not risk her wrath, in perpetuity.’
‘Rest assured, I do not mean to. Stay the ropes, we’re coming,’ Hew called up. Taking pen and ink, he copied the direction from the wooden cask, and slipped the letters and the catechism close inside his shirt.
‘Now why do you do that? Why not take the casket?’ wondered Giles.
‘For then it would be seen – aye my hearties, wait, we come!’ – Hew cried aloud, and dropped his voice. ‘Sir Andrew Wood has spies. And I would like to know what we have found, before we have to hand it to him.’
‘What say you? You suspect the coroner?’
‘Though I may not suspect him, I reserve my trust. The more we know of this, the better we may judge, and the harder it may be for him, to hide from us his hand. Meanwhile, we must find a man to read the letters.’
‘That is no great task,’ reflected Giles. ‘We have one at St Salvator’s. Professor Groat is fluent in the Dutch. His family came from Antwerp, where his father was de Groote.’
‘Truly?’ marvelled Hew. ‘I did not know. Then he will serve us well, on all accounts. He will, of course, play puff and snuff, complaining he is put upon, while all the while this tragic tale will find him in his element.’
‘He’s too much in his element, and we will shake him out of it,’ said Giles. ‘Throw caution to the wind, and ask him out to supper!’
The boat gave a great lurch, and the cabin doors flew open. ‘Master, come you now, or you will not come at all.’
They scrambled back up on the deck, and across the narrow timbers to the lighter, listing badly with the strain. ‘Let loose the clips,’ the schippar cried, and with the last uncoupling of the ships the Dolfin gave a shudder and a sigh, and then a mighty crack, that rippled through her decks, splitting her in two, as if some unseen hand had reached up through her bowels and dragged her slithered entrails through the bottom of her hull. She turned in upon herself, with a sickening wrench.
‘God love us,’ whispered Giles. ‘But that was close.’
‘Aye,’ said the schippar, ‘ye were cutting it fine. Did ye find out what you wanted?’
Hew sat ashen faced. ‘I cannot say,’ he stammered. ‘We will tell it to the coroner.’ He recovered his composure when he saw the schippar scowl.
As the boat turned back to land, Giles said a little shyly, ‘It may not be the time to say . . . though in the face of death, and all, what better time to say? But Meg and I would like you to be gossop to the child . . . that is, to be Matthew’s godfather.’
‘I would like nothing better,’ answered Hew. ‘Forgive me, though, I thought . . . I saw you with the rosary,’ he finished awkwardly.
‘Ah. That was your father’s,’ Giles confessed. ‘And has an old significance, to Meg. So we are returned, in darkness and extremity, to what has meant the most to us. Some call it superstition, Hew, and others call it faith. I trust that you were not offended?’
‘Less offended, then afraid.’
‘Then not for Matthew’s soul, I hope?’ the doctor smiled. ‘He is to be baptised in the kirk of Holy Trinity. I should warn you, there are some provisos, set by Meg, that you must now fulfil, before she is persuaded to entrust him to your care.’
‘And what are those?’ inquired his friend.
‘That you will not let him ride upon your horse, and that you will not take him out to sea in boats.’
Chapter 8
Copin
Meg had dismissed the midwives, and returning to the hall, had recovered her position at the centre of her world. She sat by the fireside in a loose kirtle gown, working yellow flowers upon a scarlet rug, the bright silks in a bundle by her side. The shutters were closed tight against the wind and all the lanterns lit. The bairn lay sleeping in a wicker basket, a little distant from the fire.
‘You should not stitch by candlelight. You will hurt your eyes,’ Giles cautioned fondly.
Meg set aside the work. ‘It is a quilt for Matthew’s bed, and a pattern for the one our mother made for Hew. I wish I had her touch,’ she sighed. ‘In truth, I am more practised at my herbs, and would rather tend my garden.’
‘All in good time,’ the doctor soothed. ‘The work is very fine. I like this little horse.’
‘It wants a thread of gold.’
‘I will find one out,’ Giles promised, as he laid another log upon the fire. They made a circle so complete that Hew felt shy of breaking it. His sister smiled at him. ‘Has Giles asked you, Hew?’
‘I caught him on the boat,’ said Giles, ‘when he was fearful for his life, and would say yea to anything. He is pleased to be his nephew’s gossop, and is much relieved we do not mean to raise him in the Church of Rome.’ He grinned at Hew, who answered with a blush. ‘There is nothing, in my heart, could please me more,’ he vowed to Meg. ‘And I have wondered what to give him, for I cannot think he wants for silver cups.’
‘Or spoons,’ considered Giles. ‘If ever he should want to crack an egg, he has a plenitude of spoons.’
‘He wants for nothing,’ answered Meg, ‘save your good counsel, and your love.’
‘Then both shall he have freely. Yet he must have a christening gift. I thought perhaps that he might like my horse . . .’ Hew teased.
‘You will not give him your horse.’
‘. . . but I have since decided on the mill at Kenly Green, and all the land that follows on the south side of the burn. I’m told it has some worth. And though it will not suit him yet, I hope he may grow into it.’
‘You cannot give him that!’ cried Meg.
‘I do not see why not. It need not be a burden, for the factor will continue in its closer management, while Matthew draws the profits from the rents. I am not proposing he should work the mill,’ smiled Hew.
‘I mean you cannot dispense with our father’s estate. You must keep it for your own bairns, Hew!’
‘Somehow I do not see it,’ Hew said lightly. ‘Yet that is provided for. Have no doubt, what I give Matthew is the meanest portion of our father’s legacy, and leaves no deep impression on the whole. The rest he must wait for, until he comes of age. In truth, our father left m
e far too much, and it is right and proper some of it should be bestowed on him.’
Giles, who had spoken nothing all the while, now put in quietly. ‘You do know that we cannot take this gift.’
‘Indeed, you cannot,’ Hew asserted, ‘for it is not given to you.’
They were saved from further conflict by the timely entrance of Professor Groat.
‘Dear me, quite a chill, and I am in my whitsun short hose, quite wrong for the time of year . . . God bless my soul,’ he broke off, startled, catching sight of Meg, ‘Professor Locke! I did not think to find your wife abroad!’
‘She is not abroad,’ Giles reasoned. ‘She is safe at home, where she belongs.’
‘I mean to say, up and about.’
‘Even so,’ answered Giles. ‘Is there something here offends you?’
‘Your wife is only lately deliverit of child,’ Groat answered to the point. ‘That cannot be thought natural.’
‘Scarcely unnatural,’ Giles pointed out.
‘You are playing with me, sir,’ Bartie said, affronted. ‘I am tired and old, I do not ken your ways. It is not kind.’
‘You are right, it is not kind,’ interrupted Meg. ‘Professor Groat, I’m sorry if my presence here offends you. The minister himself was here today. He had no qualms to sit, or drink a cup with me. In truth, he ate his fill, and crammed his pockets full with sugar biskit bread, for fear we meant to keep it for a christening feast. Matthew will be baptised in the kirk of Holy Trinity, in two or three weeks’ time.’
‘Which does remind me,’ Bartie said, appeased, ‘I brought the child a gift, that I have somewhere hidden in my cloak.’ He felt among the folds of his long scholar’s gown. ‘I pray it may prove useful to him, in these desperate times.’
‘What is it, then, a sword?’ asked Hew.
Bartie blinked at him. ‘It is a book.’
‘Of which he cannot have too many,’ Giles approved.
‘Quite so.’ Bartie cleared his throat. ‘It is a book of common courtesies, Stans puer ad mensam, that will teach him not to fiddle with his knife. Such lessons are more pertinent than any Latin grammar. I daily see our students snivel up their sleeves, or wipe their greasy fingers on the table cloth. Not one of them, a napkin or a handkercher! Good families, too, and not poor beggar clerks, whose want of manners ought to be excused, for they may know no better. Some of them are orphans,’ he confided sympathetically. ‘And though I do not doubt you mean to teach him gentleness, this little tract will stand him in good stead, should some affliction carry off his parents at a stroke.’
Meg started at this, even as Hew smiled. ‘In which sad case,’ he answered solemnly, ‘the poor orphan’s education will depend on me. I pray you, let me see the book.’ He snatched it from Groat’s hand and read aloud, ‘The book of nurture, or the school of good manners. “Belch thou near no man’s face, with a corrupt fumosity.” Tis sound enough advice. Who is the author of this work? He does not say . . . but wait, the bookseller has writ it at the end, “compiled by Hewe Rodes, of the King’s Chapell.” Hew Rhodes, no less! A proper scholar!’
‘It is an English name,’ expounded Bartie Groat, ‘which may explain the rift. I own, thou shalt not belch in someone else’s face is a singular injunction. We must infer a nation of some savageness, and a peculiar fumosity.’
‘I have not found the wind particular to Englishmen,’ reflected Giles.
‘I hear it passes largely to the Dutch,’ Hew answered gravely, ‘who turn their windmills with it.’
Professor Groat looked pained. ‘I fear my little gift is ill received.’
‘Piffle, tis a fine thing,’ sniggered Hew.
Meg rose to her feet. ‘It is a fine thing you might learn from,’ she rebuked her brother. ‘Clearly, you want manners. Professor Groat, it is a grand gift, and the kindest thought.’
To Bartie Groat’s dismay, she kissed him on the cheek. He quite forgot his creed, together with his handkerchief, and spluttered in his cap. Hew gave way to laughter as Giles cleared his throat.
‘Quite so. Stans puer ad mensam. That is, shall we eat?’
When they had had their supper, and were settled by the fireside with a second jug of wine, Hew brought out the letters. ‘We hoped that you might read them for us,’ he explained.
‘Aye? Then there is something still I have to teach you.’ Bartie sniffed.
‘Professor, there is much that you can teach me. Forgive me my discourtesies, for I do repent of them. Tis no matter of your learning that I do dispute, only that you see it through a dark perspective glass,’ Hew protested.
‘Your spectacles are clear,’ alleged Professor Groat, ‘and your perspective, as you call it, shows a different hue. For you have health, and wit and wealth, and a place here in the college superior to mine, for all the folly of your youth. You can want for little in your life. Yet some of us are born from baser stock, and struggle to ascend our poor profession, lacking your advantages.’
‘Bartholomew, I did not think . . .’
‘You do not think. It is the failing of your rank, and of your age,’ Bartie answered sadly.
Hew was stricken with remorse, until Giles pointed out, ‘You are a frank imposter, Bartie Groat, for you are neither frail nor poor as you pretend to be. Your father was a man of means, and you are in your element. You have lived close and cloistered all your life.’
‘That is what I like about the young,’ chuckled Bartie Groat. ‘They are so very green, and gullible.’ He produced from his sleeve a pair of folding spectacles, and propped them on his nose, as he embarked upon the letters with a furrow and a frown, designed, at least in part, to prevent them slipping off. ‘Tis hard to decipher such a crooked hand. Tis not so much unlettered, as ill-formed. Well now,’ Bartie said, ‘the letters have been written to a woman and a child – Beatrix, and Lotte, from a man called Jacob – Copin, as he calls himself, in this one to his wife, and papa, in the letter to the little girl. They are both lodged in the begijnhof at Ghent.’
‘What is the be-hine-hoff?’ queried Meg.
‘It is a sort of convent, called in French, the beguinage. Common in the low lands, and some parts of France. Tis not a common nunnery, but rather like a commune, or a convent, where women live together, and may work in peace. They take no vows of chastity, and are free to leave to marry, or to have a child,’ Hew explained.
‘Then they must be blessed. Are they not papists, then?’ asked Meg.
‘Aye, they are papists, as I understand it. Though they are not devout.’
‘It is, in truth, a way to manage women, when a surplus does abound,’ put in Professor Groat, ‘A convent, or a coven, for the meaning is the same. Tis not, you understand, to serve the gentle class, but rather for disposal of the low and common kind.’
Giles returned Meg’s grimace. ‘Professor Groat is antick in his ways.’
‘The letters, now,’ said Hew.
‘Aye, tis pertinent you speak of papists, for he sends the child his creed,’ Professor Groat resumed.
Hew nodded, handing him the text. ‘There was a book.’
Bartie Groat examined it. ‘This is the Heidelberg catechism, a tract of the Dutch reformed church. Then Jacob, it appears, was of a different faith. It is a proper missive, from a father to his child. Tis filled with hopes and prayers for her, that she should learn her letters, and live and love full well.’
‘He must have been a man of rank and means, that taught a little lass to read and write,’ reflected Meg.
Her brother shook his head. ‘Not so, of necessity. The nuns will have a school. Tis common, in the low lands, for simple folk to read.’
‘Truly? Then I like that place. It seems that he foresaw a life for her, outside the nunnery. God bless him for a fit and loving father,’ Meg approved.
‘He bids her well, commends her to her mother, and to God. Affecting, aye, but unremarkable. The letter to his mistress tells a darker tale.’ Professor Groat looked up, his spectacles askew. ‘I
think there is no optick glass could colour it more brightly, except it were the prism of his tears.’
This was said with such simplicity, and so sincerely meant, that Hew and Giles both glanced at once at Meg, who shook her head emphatically. ‘No matter, though, I want to hear.’
‘A moment,’ Giles requested, ‘and a quill and paper. I will write it down.’
‘Dearest, my own, my beloved Beatrix,’ Professor Groat began, once Giles was settled at his writing slope, ‘and other such effusions of the sort.’
‘You need not read the tender parts,’ said Hew. ‘The matter will suffice.’
‘There is nothing less than seemly here, though there is a poignancy,’ Professor Groat went on. ‘He writes, They all are gone; the captain, Henryk, young Joachim, that came with me from Ghent, so filled with spirit and with life. I close my eyes, and I can see his mother in the Vrijdagmarkt – that is the Friday market – selling flowers . . . scent of poppy heads and pinks; I hear the peal of bells, the wagons on the cobblestones, bright with copper pans. Tell Joachim’s mother that . . . – this last he has crossed out.’
‘Does he not say what happened to them?’ interrupted Giles.
‘He comes to it; tis hard to make it out. Fair stood the wind when we left Vlissingen.Vlissingen, that is the place called Flushing, on the river Scheldt,’ the professor glossed. ‘I built my windmill on the upper deck, and painted her bright coat against the white-slopped blueness of a sailors’ sky. The shipmaster was pleased, and took me on as timmerman. A windmill, strange to say, is very like a ship.’
‘Then it was Jacob made the windmill,’ Hew concluded thoughtfully.
‘So it would appear. Then we came north to . . . to market where . . . the men had business, and took on fresh supplies. We sailed up coast to Rotterdam, for casks of Rhenish wine. The schippar and his friends ate well that night. The meat and bread were fresh, though shrivelled up and stale by the time they reached the crew. I made my small supper of biscuit and salt, counting that my debt to the shipmaster was spent. Then, with his death, the matter was discharged.’
Time and Tide Page 10