Fate and Fortune (4 page)

Matthew Cullan was buried in the kirkyard of St Leonard’s on the last day of the old year 1580, on the 24
^th
March.
*
It was also Good Friday, a coincidence that surely would have pleased him as he made his final journey underground. Dying, he had scornfully declined the burial ground most proper to his person and his means. He would not lie within the audit of that kirk, but stayed a papist to the last beyond the stubborn outcrop of its walls.

Matthew would have liked the bells to ring. But in the wake of the reformed kirk, his children had to settle for the mortbell swung before the kist, their only consolation that the bellman sulked and shivered in the absence of his hat. The purpose of the bell was purely practical: it did not serve to mark the passing of the dead, but to summon tenant farmers from their scattered cottages to assist the coffin on its progress to the grave. The kist was carried from Kenly Green, at the outskirts of the parish of St Leonard’s, to the little chapel in St Andrews, a distance of almost four miles. The clatter of the handbell was
unwelcome
in the fields, where the black ewes dropped their lambs into the bitter sunshine, and the shepherds turned their backs, pretending not to hear. And so the bulk of the burden was borne by Hew Cullan, by his sister’s husband Giles, by Matthew’s ageing steward and his son, by the lawyer, Richard Cunningham, and by Nicholas Colp. Robin Flett was sick, and begged to be excused.

Nicholas appeared, as wan and frail as ever, to insist upon his place in the procession, with a fierce intent of purpose that put the rest to shame. Giles had nodded calmly, ‘Aye, for sure, he’ll walk with me.’ And Hew observed the doctor hoist the bier upon his shoulder, where his cheerful bulk took on the greatest weight, and, wheezing surreptitiously, he braced his other arm across the back of Nicholas and bore the brunt of both, the living and the dead, in one consoling stroke. Thus strengthened by the force that walked behind him, Hew began their slow procession through the slush.

The pale salted sunshine had dampened the track, the snow dissolved to mud, and the fringe of the mortcloth was trailed in the mire. No one spoke; there was no sound save the gulls, the distant rush of sea, the coarse discordant jangling of the bell, and they were glad enough to come into the town, borne eastward by the seagate, when the scholars of St Leonard’s came obedient to the bell to take their burden from them to the quiet earth. The bearers’ arms hung slack as Matthew Cullan’s kist was dropped into the ground. There, without comfort of psalm, the last frozen clods were thrown over him.

Once these rites were done, a quietness descended on the tower house, as the visitors departed one by one. Richard was the last to leave. He had business with the coroner, and intended to remain in Fife for several days, returning to the capital once the skies were cleared. He left Hew with assurances of goodwill and welcome, if he ever changed his mind. Then, at last, Hew found himself alone, to dispose of the remains, and consider his father’s affairs. Matthew had died well in every sense, leaving behind a great deal of money. His property and land accrued to Hew. The fabric of the house, their mother’s linens, drapes and plate, was left to Meg, and taken down accordingly. Hew felt its inner life disintegrate, wrapped and boxed and carted down the narrow lane. This was not his childhood home. He had grown up in Edinburgh, in the shadow of St Giles, and remained there at the grammar school when Matthew had retired to Kenly Green. His
education
both at school and at the universities had long ago eclipsed all family life. His sister Meg was sensitive to this. ‘One day, you will bring your wife here. She will want her own things,’ she told him, rolling up the tapestries. She declined her father’s standing bed, its drapes and feather mattresses. So great a bed would dwarf their little house, scarcely worth the cost of carting it, dismantled, down the muddy track to town and up the winding stair. She also had refused their mother’s crimson counterpane that had lain on Hew’s bed since childhood. The colour did not please her, she had claimed.

Matthew’s legacies stretched far beyond the tower house, as his man of law explained. ‘Your father owned land and properties in Leith, and a small house in the Canongate, somewhere near the water port. Those are let out to tenants, and the rents accrued – they now must be considerable – collected by an Edinburgh goldsmith, your father’s man of business there, George Urquhart. His buith is on the north side of the hie gate, close to the kirk of St Giles. I recommend you go to him, when this weather clears. I will write you letters that will prove your claim. There are also’ – he frowned a little, squinting at the
document
– ‘large sums of money paid on account to a printer, Christian Hall, residing near the netherbow.’

‘A printer?’ Hew was interested. ‘Paid out for books?’

‘I think not. Over several years, sums of several hundred pounds have been ventured there. Whether as a loan, it’s impossible to say. But more than enough for the whole press entire. Tis likely that George Urquhart can explain the terms to you, and if there is a debt, you may recover it.’

‘Perhaps I own a printer’s shop,’ suggested Hew, amused.

‘It’s likely that you do.’

There were bequests also for some of Matthew’s servants, and for Nicholas Colp, who remained to look after the library, and
immediately
embarked upon a catalogue of books. Hew found the servants difficult, puzzled by the maid and her uncertain little courtesies; the darkly sullen deference of the cook. He spent an afternoon with his father’s old steward, the factor, Jock Chirnside, learning the extent of his estates. Chirnside was polite but wary. Most of the properties were let, and he made careful reckoning of the rents. The farmland closest to the house supplied its basic needs, which had been few in latter days. Meg’s gardens, roots and herbs were kept up at her request. Hew was impressed at the depth of his knowledge; he knew all the farmers well, their skills and circumstances. The rents were collected, the monies well stocked. Yet he seemed ill at ease. The reason came apparent when he ventured at the last, ‘Shall you keep on the house, sir?’

Hew wondered this himself. ‘I’m not decided yet.’

The man nodded gloomily. ‘Aye. Only for the men about the farm … tis hard to find work at this time of year. If you should wish to sell, or to manage things yourself …’

Hew realised to his dismay that their lives were linked with his, and that like the house and land, they were left at his disposal. He hastened reassurance, with a sinking heart. ‘You may tell the men that none of them will want for work. Whatever I decide, I will not see them starve.’

‘Tis good of you,’ the man said doubtfully.

‘As for managing the land, I hope that you may stay, as long as I have need of you. For myself, I should hardly know where to begin.’

‘Tis true eno’
that
,’ Chirnside agreed.

Hew felt overwhelmed by these responsibilities. He took refuge in the library, where Nicholas was working on his catalogue, perched high on a stool behind a tower of books.

‘I know not how to deal with servants,’ Hew complained. ‘I was not born to this.’

‘In truth though, you
were
,’ his friend pointed out. He scratched his face with the tip of his pen, and a trickle of grey ink ran down his nose. Absently, he wiped it with his sleeve, setting down the quill. ‘Though if you want advice, I’m not the man to ask, since I am a servant here myself.’

Hew snorted. ‘You, a servant? Has the world gone mad?’ He drew up a chair and flopped into it fretfully, seizing a book from the top of the tower.

‘How goes your catalogue?’

‘It
was
going well,’ Nicholas said pointedly.

‘Aye? Well and good.’ Hew did not take the hint, flicking idly through the volume he had lifted from the pile. ‘My father possessed some rare books,’ he observed. ‘
This
is the poem that gave our regent, Master Davidson, so much trouble when its printing caused offence to the earl of Morton. I know not how we come to have a copy.’

‘Aye, all those are controversial,’ Nicholas replied. ‘That is why I picked them out. I wondered whether it would not be politic to miss them altogether from the inventory. Or put them in a different one. What do you think?’

‘Oh, I do not think so. If the list is made in full, then at least I know of what I stand accused,’ Hew answered, more cheerfully. ‘In this little pamphlet, there can be no harm, now that Morton has fallen from grace. Aye, put them in. And let us fill the gaps – Buchanan, for instance, whose philosophies could never please my father, except he did concede the fineness of his
Psalms
. Dearly, I should like to have his
De iure regni
. And
that
I think, would not endear me to the king.’ He glanced through the poem. ‘I cannot think this verse was worth its trouble, to speak truth. But Davidson was a good man, and well missed. Do you recall him having in his class a most prodigious child, James Crichton?’

‘Aye, for sure. That your friend Walkinshaw called the
abominable
. But he was at St Salvator’s.’

‘That’s the one. He was younger than the rest and braver than the rest and fairer than the rest and brighter than the rest …’

‘… and spoke eleven languages.’

‘You lie, sir. It was twelve. Did I ever tell you that I met him at the College de Navarre? He challenged the professors to a match of wits, on any question they should choose to put to him, in whatsoever tongue, and none of them could best him. It was the talk of France.’

‘That’s marvellous.’

‘Marvellous, indeed. Contentious little shit.’

Nicholas looked faintly shocked. ‘I think you are a little out of sorts today.’

‘I confess it. Out of humour, tedious and vexed,’ Hew confirmed. He tossed the book aside and took another from the pile.

‘It’s hard to make a catalogue while you dislodge the books,’ Nicholas objected mildly.

‘They are dislodged already,’ Hew retorted.

‘It may look so to you, but there is method in it.’

Hew returned the volume, sighing heavily. ‘I am restless, Nicholas. I don’t know what to do.’

‘So I can see.’

Hew began to pace the room, prying into corners, turning over books. At length he came upon a small wooden writing box, and began to leaf through its contents. ‘What’s this?’ He had drawn out a letter, unopened, the seal still intact.

Nicholas looked up again. ‘Oh! I had forgotten that! It arrived some weeks ago, when your father was too ill to read it; so I put it in the writing desk. Then, of course …’

‘He died.’ Hew had cut the seal with his pocketknife, and was frowning at the contents. ‘Here is something strange.’ He read aloud:

‘Christian Hall, the printer,’ he reflected. ‘Aye, it must be that. Here is his mark.’

He showed the page to Nicholas. It was marked with the printer’s device, a black bird in the branches of a tree. Beneath this was a cross, entwined within the letter H.

‘The tree of knowledge, I suppose. But what’s the bird? Some sort of crow or corbie?’

‘Something of the sort,’ Nicholas concurred. He looked
uncomfortable
.

‘And what is the
work
? Do you know about this?’

‘I know something of the matter,’ Nicholas confessed. ‘Though I cannot think that in your present humour it will please you.’

‘If it proves a diversion, then it pleases well enough,’ Hew answered lightly. ‘What does it mean?’

‘Your father has for some years now been preparing a book for the press. When he became too frail to hold a pen, he dictated the last words to me, and I transcribed them for him. The manuscript is now complete, and in a closet here in the library.’

‘A book? What sort of a book? Why did I not know about this?’ Hew demanded.

‘He wished to have it kept secret until it was finished. As to the kind of book, it is a legal textbook, based on his account of his old cases, on which he kept most careful notes.’

‘And he did not think to mention this to me?’

‘He trusted me to tell you when the time was ripe,’ Nicholas explained uneasily. ‘And I did not judge it ripe. I fear you will not like it, Hew, for the book is directed to you. It is a treatise from a father to his son, to persuade him in the study of the law. The last words he spoke were a letter that I took down for him.’ Nicholas opened another box, and removed a folded paper, handing to it Hew. Without another word, he went back to his catalogue. The library fell silent, but for the faintest scratching of his pen, as Hew began to read.