Fate and Fortune (5 page)

Hew folded up the letter and glanced across at Nicholas, who stared down at his page. Hew cleared his throat. ‘This story of the pippin is mere stuff and sentiment,’ he said at last.

‘For sure,’ murmured Nicholas. ‘I took no notice of it, and in truth, I have forgotten it.’

‘It is an old man’s foolishness, and since it is a trick, to play on my affections, I may disregard it.’

‘Aye, for sure.’

Hew began unfolding and folding up the paper, and at last he blurted out, ‘Is it churlish to be angry with a dead man, do you think? Because he has died, and has had the last word?’

Nicholas put down his pen. Though his friend spoke lightly, he saw the real hurt behind it, and he answered sympathetically. ‘Though it may not be reasonable, yet it may be understood. What will you do with the manuscript? Will you have it printed?’

‘I know not. I suppose that I must see it.’

Nicholas nodded and produced a key that opened up the closet. Evidently, Matthew had construed his book to be a precious thing. It was written in a score or more folded tablebooks, each of twenty sheets, the whole thing comprising a very large volume of closely wrought text. The title page read ‘In Defence of the Law.’

‘The last part I transcribed,’ Nicholas was saying, ‘but I have not read the rest. The principle, I understand, was to explain the criminal and civil courts, by means of illustration, to illuminate and show the process of the law.’

Hew opened a page at random.
‘On Spuilzie, that is commonly a crime against the person, notwithstanding which, in divers cases criminal I do recall …’
He closed the book again. ‘Ah, no. For I am done with spuilzie, and the rest. It is a law they do not have in France, that is the better for it.’

‘No doubt there is another in its place,’ suggested Nicholas.

‘Oh aye, for sure. I am done with them all. I can see no sense in it,’ Hew continued, setting down the manuscript. ‘Why would he want to put it in a book?’

‘That is plain enough. Your father missed the law. He relinquished it too soon, and in his prime. His heart remained with his old cases, and it pleased him to remember it. In my poor way, I feel the same, for while I cannot teach, I while away the hours in writing texts I hope may serve the grammar school. And I have dreamt of a treatise on Ramus,’ Nicholas added wistfully, ‘that I would call,
The Ram’s Horn
, though I could never hope to see it through the press.’

‘I can see the point of that. But not of this.’

‘It has its purpose too, for students of the law.’

‘For the education, I infer, of one student in particular,’ Hew concluded grimly.

‘The letter to you was not meant for the press. There is nothing in the manuscript that refers to you. It is merely a textbook.’

‘Then for that I must be grateful. But why was he intent on publication? I cannot think that any good will come of it. And the press is not without risk.’

‘There is nothing in a law book to offend,’ Nicholas demurred. ‘And since it is contracted, then no doubt it has already passed the censor. This is a textbook, for sure, that has no sinister intent.’

‘I must take your word for it, or else be forced to read it,’ Hew said dryly. ‘I may be my father’s instrument, and take it to the press, but rest assured I shall not be converted by his argument. Look how crabbed the letter is! How could he write so small?’

‘Crow feather quills.’

‘That wretched bird! My father has invested a small fortune in this press. I cannot think, that if he undertook to pay the whole cost of the printing of the book himself, it could cost so much. Do we have any books that bear this mark – a cross, no doubt for Christian, and H, for the Hall? I know not what might signify the crow.’

Nicholas shook his head. ‘I have taken note of printers’ marks in making up the catalogue. And I do not recognise this.’

‘All that money paid, and not a book to show for it. It is a mystery.’

‘The bird is a raven, perhaps; that signifies wisdom,’ Nicholas suggested.

‘In whose philosophy? The owl is wisdom, that’s Minerva,’ Hew retorted, ‘but the corbie, beyond doubt, is an ill-begotten bird.’

April broke fair, the bitter sheets of wind collapsing in the sunshine, and the grey slush and mud were dissolved into spring. Walking to St Andrews in the first week after Easter, Hew found himself among a throng of people. The track was worn smooth by the rumble of carts. ‘Where is everyone going?’ he asked a young farmhand.

‘Why, the senzie fair!’ The boy stared in astonishment.

‘I had forgotten. Aye, of course.’

The senzie was the largest of the annual fairs and markets, lasting fifteen days. Coming to the market as a boy, Hew had thought it was the fair for
sinners
, with its open brawls and squabbling and its powder courts and thieves. His father had explained that it was named after the synod house, and for the place the bishops once had held their council, in the cloisters of the abbey where the fair was held. For sinners after all, then, Hew concluded privately. The fair had marked the end of winter and the final surfeit of the lean dark days of Lent. A thousand foreign merchants opened up the world, far beyond the cloisters of the little town. Hew had heard the pipers piping in the crowds, watched the fights and races on the green, and had his fill of sweets and gilded gingerbread. There were jugglers and tumblers, and once a small monkey, a sad little death’s-head, hiding its face in a green velvet coat.

It felt strange now to be coming in a crowd, and as they came towards the bay he broke away, crossing the burn a little
downstream
and avoiding the vast fleet of ships that were tethered in the harbour, stretching out to sea. He approached from the south, and crossing to the west port away from the fair he made his way up to the Swallowgait, and on to the Castlegait, where Giles and Meg had taken a house. His sister welcomed him, and showed him round the upper rooms, two or three large chambers, with a kitchen to the rear, where the familiar savour of her cooking warmed and cheered the hearth.

‘You don’t mind, if we sit here, Hew? I should keep an eye on the pot.’

‘No, indeed,’ he assured her. ‘So this is your new home? It’s grand.’

Meg smiled, a little wanly. ‘There is not much of a garden, and what we have is too close to the sea. But I have kept the physic garden up at Kenly Green. I hope you do not mind it, Hew.’

The flatness of her tone surprised him.

‘How can you think to ask it?’

‘Everything is yours now.’

‘Heartily, I wish it were not. But this is a pretty house, Meg, and the tapestries sit well here. I envy you your views.’

‘Aye, but for the wind,’ Meg answered listlessly, ‘Giles says if the castle is besieged again, then our house will be the next to fend the cannon balls, if the wind has not yet swept us down into the sea.’

Hew laughed. ‘That’s cold enough comfort! Is Giles at the university?’

Meg nodded. ‘He is with a patient. Since we came back from Kenly Green, he has scarcely been at home. He spends his hours between the college and his old turret tower that he calls his consulting room, where half the time he locks himself with patients, and the rest he sits and reads. And often he will strain his eyes to fret and squint by
candlelight
, and does not come to bed till dawn. And I confess … it was not what I expected.’ She dropped her eyes low, and Hew felt a growing concern.

‘He is a busy man,’ he ventured cautiously.

‘Aye, he is,’ Meg sighed. ‘And once he would discuss his business. We shared the practice, Hew, and I dispensed the remedies. He asked me for advice. Now he makes his own prescriptions, sees his patients privately and does not break their confidence. He shuts me out.’

‘Then they are private matters, that he may not talk of, even with his wife,’ suggested Hew. ‘Or else he does not want to trouble you, when you are grieving still for father’s death.’

His sister shook her head. ‘I know what it is it that preoccupies him. There is an outbreak of the virol in the town. The wives of those poor wretches that consult him come to me for help; he cannot think me blind to it. Yet he will not discuss it. The subject is too delicate, the matter is too coarse, to speak of to a
wife
. He has become my father, and he treats me like a child,’ she answered wretchedly.

Hew sensed something deeply amiss. He was conscious that his sister had no mother to confide in. Yet he could not talk to her about the marriage state. Decorum, and a natural reticence, together with a want of relevant experience, were strong inhibitors. ‘If you are unhappy you must talk to him,’ he urged.

Meg shook her head. ‘He will not hear it. He is careful to avoid it. And when he does not work, what little time he has,’ she went on hopelessly, ‘he has embarked upon a course of healthful exercise. He has a mind, he says, to take up golf. There upon the peg you see his golfing doublet.’

‘I see it, aye, the lozenged silk,’ Hew frowned.

‘And here set out for warming are his golfing hose and garters, and there behind the door, his golfing cap and slippers.’

‘Well …’ Hew felt at a loss. ‘Tis strange. But if he’s fixed on sport, then why not play it too?’

‘Giles says the unaccustomed air would bring on fits.’

‘And you were swayed by that? I do not think it likely. When were
you
likely, to take such advice?’ Hew exclaimed.

‘Of course it is not likely. Don’t you see? He does not want my company. And I am loath enough to force myself upon him.’ Meg was close to tears. ‘I sometimes think it was for pity that he married me. I am a poor enough wife.’

‘That is foolishness, Meg. You must talk to him. It vexes me to see you brought so low.’

‘It’s nothing,’ she smiled at him weakly. ‘You were right; it’s father’s death that has affected me. Giles is a good man. I should not begrudge him his play.’

‘I hope you may resolve your differences,’ Hew told her seriously, ‘for I am sad to have to leave you in this state.’

‘Are you going away?’ She looked up in alarm.

‘Aye, I must go south; but not for long. It is some business Father left. By the by, did you know he wrote a book?’

‘What sort of book?’

‘A book of his old cases. Very dull and dry. Perhaps he spoke of it to Giles?’

‘Aye, Perhaps he did.’ She had turned her attention back to the pot, as though the business held no interest after all. ‘You will find him in his tower. Go now, fetch him home. Tell him there is beef for dinner.’

Hew walked briskly past the castle to the Swallowgait, turning left at Butt’s Wynd to the college of St Salvator. On the north street, west of the chapel, stood the provost’s lodging house, where Professor Locke kept on his rooms in clear and frank refusal of the married state. Hew climbed the stairway in the turret tower, rapping lightly when he reached the top.

‘Come in, come in!’ the doctor called out briskly. ‘Pray undress behind the screen, while I make warm my hands.’

‘I pray you, do make warm your hands,’ Hew answered pleasantly, ‘though, if it please you, I shall keep on my clothes.’ He pushed open the door and went in. The room had changed little, though a few more jars and bottles had appeared upon the shelves among the rows of curios, instruments and books.

‘Hew!’ The professional glance of welcome broke into a smile. ‘Ah, forgive me, I mistook you for a patient! But perhaps you
are
a patient, and have reconsidered?’ Giles ventured cautiously. ‘Then you need not be ashamed. It will only take a moment now, to set your mind at rest.’

Hew flopped down on a cushion on the window ledge and groaned. ‘Peace, will you never give up? I have not come as a patient. Aye, and I will swear to you, that I will never loosen off my points to you, while I live and breathe.’

‘I take your point. You need not drive it home,’ said Giles, a little hurt. ‘Well, I am glad to see you, nonetheless. Have you been to the house?’

‘Aye,’ Hew admitted. ‘And there’s beef for dinner. But I found Meg in low spirits.’

Giles, who had brightened at the start of this remark, looked a little thoughtful at its close. ‘She is a touch melancholic,’ he acknowledged. ‘That is to be expected, since your father died. I should perhaps have noticed it. I will prescribe her something. And, if she will have it, I will take her to the surgeon to be bled. I fear I have neglected her.’

‘You may be sure she will not have it,’ Hew replied severely. ‘And you have neglected her. It is your company she wants, and not your physic.’

Giles appeared stricken. ‘What has she said?’

‘She thinks you do not care for her, since you spend so little time with her.’

‘She cannot think that! For the reverse is true.’

‘Then show it. For, in truth, it grieves me that I find her so despondent. What is the matter, Giles?’

‘You cannot doubt I love her,’ Giles retorted desperately. ‘It is this cursed sickness comes between us, Hew. I do confess, it vexes me.’

‘The falling sickness?’ echoed Hew. ‘Yet you were full willing when you wed …’

‘Ah, not that! I do not mean Meg! Peace, you must know, I do not mean Meg! You know full well, her sickness is no hindrance, save I am afraid …’ the doctor checked himself. ‘It is the wretched
grandgore
that distracts me.’

‘That I had noticed,’ Hew replied dryly. ‘But is it so bad?’

‘The pox runs rife throughout the town … like the very plague. In truth,’ Giles said earnestly, ‘it is worse than the plague, which terror strikes swift and kills quickly.’

‘The kirkmen say the virol targets the corrupt, and is the most discerning scourge of sin,’ Hew remarked judiciously.

Giles snorted. ‘Aye, they do, and turn their backs on countless wives and bairns. The grandgore wreaks its havoc through the generations, ravaging and maiming over many years. It is a most insidious disease, and dearly, I would like to find a cure for it. For what the surgeons presently propose …’ he shook his head, ‘well, those are horrors dreamt in hell. You cannot conceive what the poor wretches suffer.’

‘But for a gentler remedy, might you not look to Meg?’ persisted Hew. ‘And share your apprehensions? She has wit and skill.’

‘And shall I speak to her, of foul, polluted congress?’ Giles blurted fiercely. ‘Or of suppurating pustules, on the privy member? Dear God, she is your
sister
, Hew! She is my
wife
!

‘Perhaps Meg has told you,’ he changed the subject abruptly, ‘I am embarked on a most healthful course of exercise. I recommend it to you, as most beneficial.’

‘That I infer is part of the problem,’ Hew retorted. ‘She tells me you have taken up the golf.’

‘Golf, oh aye,’ Giles said dismissively. ‘But that is a winter game, and now that it is spring, and the grass begins to grow, it is difficult to play. In truth,’ he frowned, ‘it proves a costly sort of game, for the balls are made so hard, they crack the clubs.’

‘That must be vexing,’ Hew observed.

‘It would be, if I often hit the ball,’ conceded Giles. ‘No matter, for I am resolved in
giving up the gowf
.’

‘Meg will be relieved.’

‘And taking up the,’ Giles went on stubbornly, ‘to which end I have set my heart upon a purchase from the senzie fair. There is a man there has for sale a pair of tennis drawers. Then you and I will take
our
turn upon the caichpule at the priory, for I know you played in Paris, at the
jeu de paume
. Shall we play racquets or hand?’

This last question startled Hew. He replied, a little nonplussed, ‘You were thinking of playing with me?’

‘Aye, and why not?’ enthused Giles. ‘You play well. And since I am a novice, you shall point out the rules.’

‘Giles … you do not think that you may find it … somewhat hot and straining?’

‘What of it? For though a chafing heat may stir the blood …’

‘I fear it might.’

‘Yet I am stout enough to brave the storm.’

‘Aye, so you are,’ Hew sighed. ‘In truth, though I should like nothing more than teaching you the catchpole, yet I am afraid that it will have to wait. I am about to leave for Edinburgh, on some business. And I may be gone a while.’

‘Ah, then that’s a pity. Still, the weather is perhaps a little chill,’ Giles conceded. ‘We shall try our racquets later in the spring. What business have you in the capital?’

‘Debts owed to my father. And another strange affair, that perhaps he mentioned to you? He has left a book of his old cases in the courts, with directions to a printer, Christian Hall.’

Giles shook his head. ‘I never heard of that. It’s strange he did not mention it. Though not so strange, perhaps, that he should leave a casebook. I have often thought that I might publish one myself. God willing, aye, a treatise on the pox,’ he added thoughtfully. ‘When I came here to take up this place, it struck me as singular, in this time and age, not to find a printer. In a university of such renown, I quite expected it. Yet it turned out our theses are sent off to Edinburgh, that has printers, but no university.’

‘Aye, it was not always so. When Nicholas and I were boys in St Leonard’s college, some six or eight years ago, there was a printer in the town, who came to grief.’

‘How so?’ Giles looked interested.

‘One of our regents, John Davidson, wrote a poem that was printed without his consent, that caused great offence to the Court. For which the printer, Robert Lekprevik, was sentenced to ward in Edinburgh castle, and remains there to this day for all I know, or else is dead.’

Giles tutted sympathetically. ‘Then what became of Davidson?’

‘That is a sad story, and one that does no credit to your college. Davidson was called before the Privy Council. He appealed to the Kirk Assembly for support, who called to witness one John Rutherford, then provost of St Salvator’s, whose office you now hold. Now this man wrote a refutation of the poem in question, that later he retracted, saying that he had no quarrel with its substance, only that he had inferred, that Davidson
called him a goose
. This Davidson denied, and said he had imagined it.’

‘And was he called a goose?’ Giles inquired archly.