‘Elizabeth, desist!’ Hew could hold to decorum no longer; he fled to the ship side and vomited into the spray. Elizabeth came after him, ‘You are sick!’
‘Clever lass! Well done!’ Shakily, he wiped his mouth.
‘Yet the waves here are not very fierce.’
‘Aye, I confess, I have no stomach for the sea. It is a weakness, of which I have two. I am a poor sailor, and a poorer judge of character, else you would not be standing by me on this ship.’
Elizabeth ignored the slight. ‘In truth, you don’t look very well. You should ask your sister for some physic.’
Hew, about to spew again, stared at her instead. ‘What do you know of my sister?’ he quizzed.
‘That she is kind, and not as cross as you.’
‘Who are you?’ Hew demanded.
‘You knew me once. You liked me, then,’ she answered wistfully.
‘But I could not have known you, unless you were a child . . . You are Jennie Dyer!’ he exclaimed.
‘I was, once. Not now.’
‘What are you doing here? I thought you went to France?’
‘I did. I met a fine man there. Fine and brave and old. I lived with him until he died, and then his family turned me out, and I went up to Vlissingen with Colonel Balfour. But I was hamesick, then,’ she sighed, and spoke in the vernacular, ‘and thought I would come back, to see my brithers and the bairns. You would think that after a’ that time they might be pleased to see me. And yet it seemed that they were not. I bided for a while at the haven at Dundee, but the menfolk there are miserly and cruel, and now I’m growing old, my looks are all but gone,’ she finished plaintively.
‘What age are you now, then? Sixteen?’ She was flawless, beneath her thick paint.
‘All but,’ she agreed.
‘You dyed your hair.’
‘Of course I did. For was I not the dyer’s child? Now I go back to join the soldiers at the camp. It is a rough and ready trade.’
‘And it must be a dangerous one,’ Hew reflected soberly.
‘Sometimes. But it is a life. I suppose you do not want to take a turn?’ She grinned at him. ‘For free?’
‘You suppose quite rightly.’
‘Tis pity, then. But whisht, for here comes Archie Chandler!’
The merchant sidled up and cleared his throat, ‘Good sir, may I know your terms?’
Hew stared at him. ‘Your pardon, sir?’
‘The young lass there. What terms?’
‘I do not understand you,’ answered Hew.
‘Come now, sir, do not pretend. For I am discreet, and we are both of us men of the world. I beg you, name your price.’
‘If you do allude to what I must suppose,’ Hew replied coldly, ‘then you impugn this lady’s honour, and do hurt to mine. Do I understand, you take me for a pandar?’ He drew back his cloak to place a hand upon his sword. Chandler stepped back, startled and confused. ‘Beg pardon,’ he stammered. ‘As I do assure you, I meant you no offence. I had not understood the lady was . . . reserved.’
‘She is under my protection,’ Hew declared.
‘Aye, for sure,’ the merchant muttered, backing off.
Elizabeth burst out laughing, and threw her arms around Hew’s neck. ‘Oh, you poor dear fool! How sweet you are!’ She hurried after Chandler, calling, ‘Master Archie, wait!’
‘Jennie! Don’t!’ cried Hew. But Jennie paid no heed, and another wave of sickness sent him heaving from the deck.
He spent the next four days and nights inside the captain’s cabin, where he sometimes stirred, and sometimes slept, and sometimes spewed and sometimes groaned, until upon the morning of the fifth day he turned blearily to find the morning light had filtered through the slats and that Jennie twitched the curtains that were closed around his bunk.
‘Jennie, you cannot come here,’ he groaned.
‘I came to tell you,’ she said sweetly, ‘that the ship is come to dock, for we are at Campvere, and you must now get up. And what a sight you are! Still sick, for all these days. You want a proper lassie looking after you. Braw, it is, in here,’ she looked round appraisingly. ‘All that Archie Chandler had wis a bed roll fu’ of straw.’ She veered between the fine talk of the court and the brash and breezy banter of the common whore.
Hew tried to sit up shakily. ‘You have no sea legs, right enough.’ Jennie pursed her lips. ‘Has it always been like that?’
‘It has grown much worse,’ he told her, ‘in the last few months.’
‘And what has made it worse, I wonder?’
Hew resisted stubbornly, ‘I do not know.’
‘You dinna ken? I doubt you do. What happened to you, in the last few months, that made you sick at sailing?’ she persisted.
‘I suppose it was that . . . my horse capsized a ferry boat, and I almost drowned,’ admitted Hew.
‘You see? You do ken what it was. It is your fear of drowning, not the rocking of the boat, that makes your stomach sick,’ she concluded shrewdly. ‘It’s all in your mind. Like a man I once kent, who couldna keep his end up.’
‘I am much obliged to you,’ he answered wryly, retching in the chamber pot.
‘Not much use in that when your belly’s dry as dust. Suddenly, and unexpectedly, she kissed him on the cheek. ‘I’m no that proud mysel’,’ she added as an afterthought, ‘but you might want to have a wash.’
Unconsciously, Hew touched the place where she had kissed ‘What was that for?’
‘It was to say goodbye. For I must slip away, when we are off the boat. I cannot let them catch me. And it is to say that I am sorry.’
‘What are you sorry for?’ he asked.
She answered, wickedly, ‘The trouble you are in.’
The boat had come to rest at the Scots quay in Campvere, where the captain and his crew now bustled back and forth, unloading hides and wool into the stores and warehouses that lined the busy pier. Across the narrow strip of water, Hew could see the bright facade and fine Dutch gables of the factors’ houses, high windows flanked with wooden shutters, glazed and crossed with lead. One bore a small carved lamb set into the stonework – the mark of the wool merchant, surely? ‘I made my wealth from wool,’ it spoke, ‘and from my wealth, I made this house, which will stand living testament long after I have gone.’ It reminded Hew a little of James Edie, who bore the baxters’ stamp in the golden sheaf of wheat he wore pinned onto his cap, both badge of his profession, and mark of his success. The lamb house had a twin, with a carving of a round-beaked, bulbous bird, which Hew could not identify, and the significance of which was lost on him. A family name, perhaps? And beyond these fair proud houses ran a row of streets, through town hall and marketplace, towards a gothic church, whose grandeur and great size appeared to dwarf the little town, surrounded on all sides by the river and the sea.
Struggling still to stand, Hew was the last to disembark from the Yellow Caravel, tripping weak and shakily along the narrow plank. Since he had not yet found his sea legs, he might well have hoped that the grip of terra firma would hold him in her grasp. Yet this proved not the case, for no sooner had his land legs made contact with the earth than they gave way and crumpled. Hew fell tumbling to the ground.
‘Ah, no you don’t, young master, up ye come!’ He heard a harsh voice ringing in his ear, as he was roughly seized and pulled back on his feet. ‘Ye are wanted in the Scots house, and will come precipitate.’ This was not the gracious welcome Hew might have expected, from the courtesy and deference he had met with on the ship. He looked round for the shipman, Master Beck, who was watching the unloading of his cargo in the dock. The crates, sacks and tuns were winched from the ship and trundled off in carts. Beck gestured reassuringly. ‘I will be there, by and by. Give my best respects to the Conservator.’
Hew was taken from the harbour up towards the marketplace, where the Scottish nation had their lodgings, close to the town hall. Here the merchants ate and slept, and enjoyed the privilege of tax free meat and drink, while in the stadhuis they held
court, according to Scot’s law. Inside, he found the office of the Scots Conservator, occupied already by the merchant, Archie Chandler. George Hacket sat before them at a writing desk. Chandler cried at once, leaving Hew in no doubt who had called for his arrest, ‘This is the ruffian I have accused!’
Baffled, Hew answered, ‘Of what?’
‘Of perfidy and infamy of a most pernicious kind.’
‘Your pardon, sir,’ Hew turned to appeal to the Conservator, ‘but may I know the nature of this charge?’
‘You speak, sir, as and when you are addressed,’ the Conservator retorted, which did not seem the most auspicious start. ‘The nature of the charge, of which you stand accused, is one of theft.’
‘Aye,’ said the merchant, ‘Can you deny, you robbed me?’
‘I can, and do,’ Hew answered in astonishment. ‘Yet what is it that you suppose you have lost?’
‘My purse, sir, while I slept, was taken from my pocket by your little whore,’ Chandler swore indignantly.
Unconsciously, Hew smiled. ‘Ah, Jennie, you minx,’ he applauded her, under his breath.
‘You see, sir,’ cried the merchant, ‘how the villain smiles? I think that we have caught a viper in our midst, that flees from darker waters he has stirred at home, supposing his iniquities are hidden from our courts.’
‘In truth,’ admitted Hew, ‘I had not realised that on coming to Campvere, I left such devastation in my wake, or that I should be taken for a brigand.’
‘It seems to me, sir, that you think this is a jest; yet I assure you, you will not be laughing when the noose is at your neck,’ the merchant sneered. ‘Is that not so, now, Master Hacket?’
‘No court of law, that patterns on the Scots, will hang a man without he has defence, or fails to let him make his answer to the charge,’ objected Hew. ‘Is that not so, now, Master Hacket?’
‘That is so. And yet this is no matter, sir, that you should take so lightly, for you will find,’ said George Hacket, ‘that we have no patience here with thieves.’
‘Indeed, I do not laugh at it,’ protested Hew. ‘But if this merchant has been cozened by a whore, then he should take the moral, not to lie with whores, or else make honest payment to them for their pains, for surely such as lie with him are sorely put upon. I do not see at all what it has to do with me.’
‘It is plain what it has to do with you,’ the merchant roared, ‘she is your punk.’
Hew scowled at him. ‘My what?’
‘Your harlot, sir, your hussy, drab, your kittock, pink. Is that not plain enough for you? Tis plain enough to see you were her pimp.’
‘So this madman did address me on the Yellow Caravel,’ said Hew to the Conservator, ‘when as I said as plain to him, as I do to you, that I had no connection with the woman that he bought, at whatever price. Indeed, I was astonished, that he asked me to sell her to him, for, as I made quite clear, she was not mine to sell.’
‘You sent her to my bed!’ the merchant roared.
‘Indeed, sir, I did not.’
Hacket gave a snort of irritation. He was aptly named, thought Hew, for a justice of the peace, like a humph of disapproval, or the clearing of a throat. ‘Do we have this woman in our grasp?’
The guard replied, ‘It seems, sir, that she slipped away.’
‘Well, go and look for her! We cannot have her loose about the town. Have her stripped and whipped, and put back on the ship.’
‘But she has robbed me, sir!’ the merchant whined.
‘True, I had forgotten that,’ Hacket said judiciously, ‘Then have her hanged. Will that appease you, Archie?’ he demanded of the merchant.
‘I suppose, sir, that it must,’ Archie answered grudgingly, ‘as lang as I have reparation, too, fae him,’ he jerked a thumb at Hew.
‘It seems to me,’ said Hew, ‘that you have been well served, and with the ready justice you deserve.’
‘It seems to me,’ returned George Hacket, ‘you were best advised to hold your tongue. What creature are you, sir?’
At that moment, captain Beck appeared, announcing cheerfully, ‘Good morrow, masters. All unloaded, and, I hope, all well?’
‘All is not well,’ Hacket said bluntly, ‘since you have brought us a shipload of whores.’
‘Ah,’ said captain Beck, ‘that was a mistake. You showed to him the letter, did you no?’ he asked aside to Hew.
Hew replied, ‘Not yet.’
The captain looked dismayed. ‘Well, why the devil not?’ he hissed.
‘He has not asked for it,’ admitted Hew.
‘Well gie it him, now, you loun!’ demanded Beck. To Hacket he explained, ‘He kens nothing of this woman, for he hasnae been too well. And he has left the cabin in an awfy state. He is what ye might call an innocent abroad.’
Hew had a letter in his bag addressed to George Hacket, which bore the sheriff’s seal. Though the words inside were brief, the letter seemed to take the Conservator a long while to read. At last he closed it thoughtfully, and slipped it in his coat. ‘There has been a mistake here,’ he informed the merchant. ‘This man is here on business of the Scottish Crown, and he is not involved in a dispute with you. Therefore, I bid you beg his pardon for the slur. And further, I would counsel you, not to lie with whores. Your indiscretion shall be made known to the minister at our kirk. We have our own kirk, here,’ he explained to Hew, ‘according to our morals and our faith, that takes a dim view of these matters.’
‘Quite properly,’ said Hew.
‘What!’ the merchant roared. ‘Am I not to have satisfaction?’
‘You will beg this good man’s pardon, and be satisfied with that. On your knees,’ suggested Hacket.
Hew thought, in all conscience, he could not consent to that. He began to feel uncomfortable. ‘No, sir, I implore you, let us part as friends,’ he offered to the merchant.
Chandler thundered past him, snarling, ‘I will see you damned!’
Chapter 18
A Man for Hire
George Hacket glowered at Hew. ‘You are here on business of the Crown, and I have been enjoined to extend every courtesy. Yet I must warn you that I do not stand for discord here. We are accepted by the people in this town with privilege and kindness, and in return, it is our duty to respect their peace, and be sure not to offend them. We do not, sir, bring whores to their clean sheets. We do not cheat and rob from them, or pay them less than we do rightly owe. We do not sneer at their manners or their food, and while we may observe that they are fond of cabbage, and that their pottage tastes like barrels full of dust, we keep it to ourselves, and do not deign to mention it. We treat their woman civilly, and do not spit and curse when we are walking through their streets. We treat them, sir, as they treat us, as friends. And most of all, we do not shame ourselves, to squabble and to bicker with our fellow Scots, that they might think us rude, uncivil or unlearned. We not flyt or brangle, or bring riot to their streets. Do you understand, me, sir?’ he iterated coldly.
‘Clearly,’ answered Hew.
‘That I am pleased to hear. This letter states that you must go to Ghent, and asks that I provide you with a guide. The writer is presumptuous, in assuming that I have a man to spare, for that is inconvenient at this time. There are, however, several Scottish soldiers idle in the town, one of whom will no doubt serve your turn, and I will put a notice in the barracks, and have a man sent to you tonight. I suggest you leave for Ghent first thing tomorrow morning.’
‘That is the plan,’ admitted Hew.
‘In which case,’ Hacket said, ‘you must find somewhere to stay the night. It is usual for our countrymen to stay here at the Scots house, where they may sleep and eat at the preferential rate, yet I fear your presence here has not been well received, and you must pay the penalty, of staying at the inn. Master Beck will see you to your rest, and presently you may expect a man to come to you.’
The Conservator dismissed him with a brief wave of his hand. ‘I trust, sir, and hope, that we shall not meet
again.’
‘He does not seem to like me much,’ Hew remarked to Master Beck.
‘You do not need to mind him, sir, for he will see you right,’ the genial captain said. ‘He is a good man, in his way. He has the keeping of the Scots part of the town, and he keeps it well, but there is enough for him to oversee the commerce and the court, without he has to mind our manners too. The Dutch folk are right guid tae us, and he wad not offend them for the world.’
‘No more should I,’ said Hew.
‘It is the matter of the whore, sir, that has vexed him,’ Beck explained. ‘It is a point of present law, that no wench might be brought here on a ship, unless she is a married wife of good repute, to prevent those woman whoring after soldiers, which in this time of war is now a nuisance and a scourge. The wee lass running loose is an embarrassment to Hacket, that he and I will both be called to answer for back home, if the lassie is not found.’
‘Then I am right sorry,’ Hew replied contritely, ‘that I have caused you trouble. I had not understood the lass’s full intent.’
‘Aye, sir. But what is trouble, but the bared excitement of a tedious time? The world were dull without it,’ answered Beck. ‘Though it might have been better,’ he admitted nonetheless, ‘had you kept her to your cabin, and not thought to share her out.’
‘But I did not . . . you mistake me, sir . . .’ Hew stammered, with a blush.
The shipman winked at him. ‘Whisht, son, dinna fret, for we have all been young. Look, here we are at the inn in the tower – the Campveerse toren, they cry her; and she stands as sentry here over the town, at the end of the haven, a gate to the sea. Is she not a bonny sight? She is part of the town’s old fortifications, though she has been an inn now for some eighty years.’
‘She looks brave, indeed,’ admitted Hew.
‘And you will have a room that overlooks the wattir, and the sweetest, freshest linen anywhere in town. And the cooking is beyond compare. They do a roasted pig, where the skin is cracked black, and the fat is sweet and melted, soft into the flesh, the like of which you will not find at George Hacket’s house.’
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