Friend & Foe

by Shirley McKay

  ‘And bold loun that I was, I telt him I was mindit for to be a soldier, fighting for the faith, in the foreign wars. The old man shook his head. “That will not do,” says he, “Your mother’s heart was broken, when your father died, and I will not be at fault, for breaking it again.”

  ‘He was the bishop by then. And so, says he, I will find for you a place at the castle garrison, where you may learn to stand and fight, and do as you are telt – which latter I confess to you, the master at the grammar school never did dint in to me, starting off too late. An’ when the time comes for to fight, says he, you may do your fighting for the earl of Morton – for that was his liege – and on hamely soil. So I was taught to stand, to fight and haud my tongue, though never did take arms up for the Regent Morton, nor now ever will, sin they hanged him too. When John Douglas died before the year was up, I was kept on in the service of Archbishop Patrick Adamson.’

  ‘And here,’ concluded Hew, ‘you have been ever since.’

  ‘Just so,’ Harry grinned.

  Hew had warmed immensely to the red-haired soldier, and his tale had touched him. It explained his passion and his ease about the castle, which he had inhabited since he was a lad, his interest in its history, and kenning of the stone. But he was curious, too, about the father’s accident, which wrought another link between St Mary’s and the castle, another kind of mystery, which could not be explained. ‘Can we see a little more? The chapel and the hall?’

  ‘By all means,’ accepted Harry. ‘I will take you to the pit, where the cardinal was slung, pickled in a barrel, like a piece of meat.’

  He showed to Hew the chapel with its high arched windows traced in coloured glass, and ornate pillared walkways, ports and colonnades; the great hall, to the east, lined in solid oak, the kitchen, vaults and oven serving from the north. A small metal postern led down to the shore, winding down a precipice of sharply turning steps.

  ‘When the tide is out, you can pass here to the jetty on the shore. But when the tide is high, the postern is kept locked. The drop is sheer and hazardous.’

  The tide was coming in, whipped up by the wind. It resounded like the pounding of a thunderous artillery, that laid siege to the castle at the northern point, more damaging and treacherous than any fleet of guns. Hew shouted to be heard. ‘Who lives in the north range?’

  ‘Servants of the bishop’s household, certain soldiers of the guard.’ Harry’s call came faint and weak, carried on the flood and flux, ‘. . . Cardinal Beaton’s . . . several hundred . . .’

  Hew took a step back from the swell of the waves. ‘And the tower on the west side?’ he roared.

  ‘The sea tower?’ mouthed Harry. ‘Come see!’

  The parapet, he said, had been damaged by the siege, and being at the back, had never been repaired. Within it, for the most part, it remained intact, containing divers chambers for ‘our special guests’. ‘There is a room above as airy and as comfortable as any you may see, that has a painted ceiling and a fine fair view, while under it . . . well, sir, come see . . . Here is the place where the cardinal lay, his corpus stripped and drained, deep in the rock.’ Harry turned the handle of a small door on the right. ‘Ach, the port is locked. I do not have the key.’

  Hew had wandered off, to a chamber to the left, the door of which stood open, to the morning air. The walls inside were painted white, and had a cool, reflective feel. A deep high window looked out to the sea, its roar subdued and muffled by the flank of stone. A narrow long low ledge was built into the western wall, the only piece of furniture.

  ‘What place is this? A prison cell?’ he called.

  Harry answered at his back, kept a watchful eye on him, both friendly and alert. ‘A place, in truth, for a gentle man to reflect upon his sins, not grand enough to lodge above nor foul enough to lie below.’

  ‘What is this hollow here? A place where food is passed?’ Hew had found the channel where the thick walls intersected, angled like a tunnel to the other side.

  ‘It is used for that purpose,’ Harry confirmed, ‘since the door has no grill. But whether by design, or it came about by accident, I cannot rightly say.’

  ‘Was someone kept here lately?’ Hew felt some loose object deep inside the cavity. His fingers closed upon it. ‘There is something here.’

  ‘Not for many years. What is it ye have found?’

  Hew withdrew his hand, bringing out a wreath of supple plaited hawthorn, shaped into a crown. The blossoms were decayed, and distilled a heady perfume of sweetly rotting flesh, that brought to mind the rankness of the bishop’s rooms. The hawthorn, Hew supposed, produced the carrion scent that carried on the wind; the gardens to the west of them were filled with dropping trees, heavily in bloom. The sea breeze seemed to catch at and disperse the fragrance, playing with it, amplifying, as it did with sound. In this little space, it felt overpowering.

  ‘Whatever is this?’

  Harry stared at it. ‘I wadna like to say. Tis likely it belongs—’

  ‘What do you men there?’

  Hew had not heard the sergeant at their back. His presence seemed to strip the room of air and light. He stood square at the door, a dark and present force.

  Harry answered easily. ‘Master Hew here has a grening to be shown in to the pit. The pity is, the doors are locked.’

  ‘Tis well, then,’ Tam countered, ‘that I have the key.’ He rattled at the tackle he wore hanging at his belt, a chain of heavy keys. The sound brought a pricking to the hairs upon Hew’s neck.

  ‘Though ye will want a lantern, and a piece of rope. Harry here will fetch them.’

  ‘Indeed,’ protested Hew, ‘he need not take that trouble. For there is no need. I should be getting back.’

  He looked to Harry for support, but Harry, for the moment, seemed to have deserted him, deaf to his appeal. ‘It is no trouble, sir. And you will like to see the place, where they slung the cardinal.’ This Hew began to doubt. The sergeant had a stance of rude and bluff belligerence he did not like at all. ‘Ye are quite safe wi’ Tam,’ was Harry’s parting shot. Tam Fairlie grinned at Hew. ‘And what do you have there?’

  Hew clenched tight his fist, closing round the crown. ‘I have no idea. I found it in the channel cut into the rock.’

  ‘Oh aye? A bird’s nest.’ The sergeant dismissed it.

  ‘I doubt that any bird could weave so fine a hand,’ Hew assured him, coldly; he would not be cowed.

  Tam Fairlie glowered at him. ‘Aye, is that a fact? Step this way, my friend, and look into the dungeon ye were keen to see.’ He took a step aside, so that Hew was forced ahead of him, and harried from behind. In that small tower of corners there was no hope of escape. Hew was irritated, rather than afraid, for he recognised the sergeant as the common sort of bully, who tormented for the pleasure of it, meaning no real threat.

  Tam had unlocked the door upon a vaulted hole, with no clear source of light, and little source of air, but for a channel vent that was cut into the rock. The cell was not the blackest hole that Hew had ever stumbled in, and scarcely yet a pit, but it was dank and dark, and he was glad enough when Harry reappeared, with the rope and lamp. ‘Now, sir, shift yer feet. For you are on the trap.’

  In the fog of yellow light, Hew became aware that he was standing on a trapdoor, several feet across. Hurriedly, he stepped aside, and pressed himself against the wall, where there was far less room.

  ‘Good man,’ Harry grinned. ‘That port is heavy, see? It takes the baith of us a’ our strength to shift it.’

  Tam Fairlie swore at Harry. ‘Ye are feeble as a lass.’

  The door was lifted with the rope, and tied up on a hook, opening to a chasm cut deep in the rock. Harry tied the lantern handle to the length of rope, and lowered it to the pit, swinging in an arc. ‘Come, sir, take a look.’ Hew stepped a little forward from the comfort of the wall, to peer down from the edge. He felt Tam Fairlie breathing, closely at his neck, fierce and hot and sour. ‘Now, sir, look at that.’ Tam’s hand closed on his
. ‘It is a long way doon.’

  Into the chasm, Tam dropped the crown, sounding the depths, marking its fall. The pit widened at the bottom, in a flagon shape, eight or nine yards down. Hew saw the hawthorn splinter, brittle in the lamplight, landing at the bottom with a gentle thud, that echoed far above. ‘You want to mind your step, sir. Ye wouldna like to fall.’

  Hew felt his stomach lurch. ‘I could do with air.’ He caught the pale light glinting through the open door.

  ‘I expect ye could,’ smirked Tam. ‘Harry here will see you safe. Your doctor friend awaits ye.’

  ‘Ye did not say that he was waiting,’ Hew accused him, heavily relieved to stagger back outside.

  ‘As I came to tell ye, sir,’ the sergeant said impassively, ‘when ye were so incontinent to see inside the pit.’

  ‘You maunna mind him,’ Harry said, as they walked to the gate. ‘Tis likely that the hawthorn crown was made by his wee lass, in one o’ her strange plays. She is a tender cause to him. He does not like to speak of it.’

  Giles was at the guardhouse, deep in conversation with a futeman of the guard. ‘This is John Richan,’ he explained to Hew. ‘He has come from Orkney. He came here as a bowman, but has injured his right shoulder.’

  The young sentry gaped at him. ‘Wha telt you that?’

  ‘Why, you did yourself.’

  ‘I telt thou my name, nothing mair.’

  ‘Richan is an Orkney name, not found about these parts. And you have the measure of it sounding in your voice. It is a pleasing sound. You hold your right arm stiff, which maks it plain to see that you are in some pain from it. You are a straight and supple lad, and I dare to hazard, not quite fully grown, though you are already taller than is common here; your growing puts a strain and a tightness in your back. In our college we are wont to hold a competition at this time of year among the students who can shoot the bow, and I have seen many a young lad, pliable and green, exert and strain himself, in lifting up a bow that is too heavy for him, or taking up the practick when his limbs were cold, or in the early morning of a winter frost, or in the summer dampness of a cooling haar. All such things are hazardous,’ Giles Locke diagnosed.

  Harry Petrie ventured, standing by with Hew. ‘Can ye help him, sir? The surgeon could not find a cause for his affliction.’

  ‘The surgeon, with respect,’ Giles snorted, ‘is a natural fool. The shoulder has been overworked. The remedy is rest.’

  ‘Then there is no help for it. Sin ye have met our sergeant, sir,’ Harry glanced at Hew, ‘you will be aware we are not let to rest. John must shoot his arrows, or else be discharged.’

  Giles saw the soldier’s plight, and answered sympathetically. ‘My wife may have a remedy.’ He said aside to Hew. ‘Do you recall the exercises I prescribed for Nicholas, to strengthen his weak limbs?’

  ‘For Nicholas?’ Hew frowned. ‘But surely, you do not propose that Meg should place her hands on him?’

  ‘Piffle, Hew. It is a boy. No older than the students we let through our colleges. Meg kens how to handle them. And she will be with Paul. The case will do her good, and she will do a deal of good, ye may be sure, for him.’ Giles was undeterred. ‘When you next have leave,’ he advised the sentry, ‘come down to my house.’

  John Richan found his voice. ‘I thank you, but I cannot, sir. It would no be right.’

  ‘He will come, sir, on my life,’ Harry Petrie swore. He clapped John on the back. ‘I’ll fetch him there myself.’

  ‘This is a curious place,’ Hew remarked to Giles as they quit the castle gates. ‘I cannot help but think that there are secrets here.’

  ‘Then it will amuse you.’ Giles seemed thoughtful and distracted, somewhat out of sorts.

  ‘How did you find Patrick?’ wondered Hew.

  ‘Peevish, sick and sore. There is no doubt he is ill, as I will write to Andro. But he is not inclined to consult me for the remedy, and so I am resolved I cannot help him more. The potions he is taking are the armoury of quacksalves, mostly stagnant waters, chalk and sugar pills. But he has no intention of heeding my advice.’

  The doctor was offended; Hew concealed his smile. ‘And what advice was that?’

  ‘Light diet, air and exercise,’ Giles reported briskly. ‘Amend his way of life. His humours are as black as any I have found. Above all he should leave this place, where rankness seems to seep from every foetid pore and every foul effluvium is hardened into stone.’

  Chapter 10

  Men at Work

  The hammering began at dawn. The builders had arrived. And so began the first of many days and weeks that drove Meg to distraction, left alone with Matthew in the din and filth of it, to battle in the stew. Giles retired each morning to his turret tower, returning once the dust had settled to inspect the works. A chasm opened up beneath the kitchen floor, where burly men were lodged, coming up at intervals to swear and whistle freely, and stamp their sweaty dirt tracks up and through the house. Giles had pinned up dustsheets to contain the stour. ‘On no account go down. Canny Bett will serve the kitchen, see to all your needs.’ His nights were spent in consultation, closed up with the architect, making small adjustments or additions to his ordinance, while Meg paced with Matthew, who was cutting teeth. The sheets brought no protection from the noise. And so Meg was confined to an upper chamber, with a squalling infant, feverish and cross, despairing of the laich house and her husband’s plans for it, oblivious to the purpose it was meant to serve.

  Halfway through the morning on the fifth day of the works, when Meg had settled Matthew to a fretful sleep, the servant Paul brought news. ‘Twa soldiers fae the castle guard are asking leave to speak wi’ ye. They say the doctor sent them. Will I turn them off?’

  ‘Show them up,’ Meg sighed. ‘For Doctor Locke did mention it.’ Giles had told her of the archer with the damaged shoulder, though he had not warned her to expect his friend. The room in which she camped was ill-equipped for guests, filled with all her own belongings and the household furniture, carried there for safety from the nether hall. It would have to serve, for there was nowhere else.

  Paul brought the men upstairs. One was tall and fair, and hung back reluctantly; the patient, Meg supposed. The other had red hair, and an open, friendly face. He spoke up for his friend. ‘This is John Richan, mistress. I am Harry Petrie. Your husband Doctor Locke said that we might come to you.’

  ‘For sure.’ Meg smiled at him. ‘You must excuse the muddle, we have warkmen in. Which one of you is hurt?’

  ‘John here.’ Harry pushed him forward. ‘Pay no heed to his manners, for he isna used to company. And he wad no have come, had I not pushed him to it, but the plain truth is that he is sair afflicted, and he cannot raise his hand.’

  The young man denied this, staring at his shoes. ‘There is no purpose tae wir coman but for spilling o’ thy time.’

  ‘Speak proper, man,’ urged Harry. ‘Else we canna comprehend ye.’

  ‘You are not from the town here?’ Meg inferred.

  ‘Na, lady. Fae Orkney.’ John spoke low and mellow, and did not look up.

  ‘Then you are a long way from home. Will you sit down, John, and take off your shirt?’

  The young man blushed bright as a rose. He was not much older than the students at St Salvator’s, and nothing in his manners marked him for a soldier. ‘I cannot do that, lady. It wid no be right.’

  Harry laughed aloud. ‘Tak courage will ye, John! He’s an unco modest laddie and a stubborn limmar too. Ye must needs be quite strict with him. Shall we strip him down?’

  ‘Perhaps,’ suggested Meg, ‘you would like to wait outside?’ She saw she could not hope to win the soldier’s trust with Paul and Harry Petrie smirking by his side. ‘Paul will take you down with him, and find you some refreshment.’

  ‘An’ then come back,’ conceded Paul, ‘and help you with his friend.’

  This was not what Meg had hoped for, but it was not unexpected. She recovered quickly. ‘I shall want you to go out, for this req
uires a remedy we do not have at hand. Go to the apothecar, and ask for a salve of marguerites in turpentine. He will call it bellis minor, or consolida. Ask only for the leaf, we do not want the flower. And ask him to put mallow in it. When you have returned with it, you may see it work.’ By which time, she would have the shirt off, and the soldier’s confidence.

  ‘Canny Bett will fetch it,’ Paul proposed. Dimly, he was conscious that he should not leave the house.

  ‘Go back down and tell her then. And bid the builders rest awhile from their incessant hammering, while I tend this man.’ Meg had to raise her voice in order to be heard. She glanced across at Matthew, stirring in his crib. ‘Their thundering this morning has jolted the whole house, as though they were intent on shaking it from under us. Send them out for air, with something strong to drink, and pour a draught for Harry here, and something for yourself.’

  ‘Richt civil of ye, mistress,’ Harry Petrie smiled. ‘She will not bite ye, John!’

  Canny Bett was peeling onions at the kitchen board. From time to time she paused to wipe away the tears on sleeves already streaked with flour and grime and soot. She was making broth according to Meg’s recipe, and though she followed carefully the long list of ingredients – the foreign roots and spices, dried herbs and fresh leaves, that Canny on her own would have thrown out as weeds – her flavours never matched the height and depth of Meg’s, for Canny Bett was not a natural cook. Elbow deep in onion skins, she felt no warmth for visitors, and scowled to see the soldier at the door with Paul. Never on the grand side, the kitchen now was cramped, partly by the chasm that had opened in the floor, and partly by the ale and wine butts from the cellar, which were pushed against the window, propping up the board. The larder, press and kitchen shelves were covered with thick cloth, not strong enough or fine enough to keep out the dust, which settled in the butter pail, and on the tubs of vegetables. What remained of the floorboards were scuffed and thick with dirt, the earth dredged up in clouts and trampled through the door.