Friend & Foe (15 page)

The principal forgot himself, and roared at him in Scots. ‘Pernicious, monstrous boy! Your
cat
, as ye design it, is buried in the midding-sted, where sic filth belongs.’

‘You did not ought to do that, sir.’

‘Whist, now,’ cautioned Hew. He placed a hand, restraining, onto Roger’s shoulder and felt his slight frame stiffen in his brother’s coat.

‘You do well to hark to him,’ the principal advised. ‘Submit to his correction, with a willing heart. God go with you both. Know that I will pray for you, with little lasting hope.’

‘You do not understand, sir,’ Roger pleased earnestly, ‘I did not kill that cat.’

‘Poor benighted loun. Puir hapless, silly child. If you could only see, it would be better if you had.’

Roger grasped Hew’s hand, his bluff front all but gone. ‘Why does he say that?’ His voice, unbroken, childlike, sounded very small.

‘Because,’ suggested Hew, ‘it is not uncommon for a boy to kill a cat, with an arrow or a stone; it is another thing entirely for a boy to cut one up.’

Roger looked bewildered. ‘I would not kill a cat. I find things that are dead, and open up the carcases, to find out how they died. I found the cat at the harbour, and it had a stone in its belly. If they had not taken it away, I could have shown it to you. I do not believe that it is possible to be a good physician, without some kenning of anatomy.’

‘I know an honest man that will not disagree with you,’ Hew answered with a sigh. ‘But he is an exception, proof against the rule. You are disadvantaged, in the first, for the fact that you are no physician, but a first year undergraduate, who has been expelled from his studies in philosophy. And in the second, there have been physicians also tried and burned, for practising black arts.’

Roger stared at him, as understanding dawned. ‘They take me for a witch!’

‘I am afraid they do.’

‘Then what is to become of me? Will I go to hell?’

‘Not if I can help it, and you do as you are told.’

It was a mark of Giles Locke’s kindness, and of his respect for Hew, that he did not dismiss the patient to the brute hands of the surgeon, but sat him straight away upon a little chamber stool, to wash with his own sponge the bruised and bloodied cheeks.

‘Dear me. What stuff is this?’

‘
Merda
, Professor,’ Roger said, in Latin, anxious to impress, though Hew had warned him earnestly that he must hold his tongue.

‘Murder?’ Giles winked at him, ‘Surely, I hope, not.’

‘
Quod est
. . . what is . . .
done
.’ Roger said, confused.

‘Or else, what is dung?’

Roger flushed a little, ‘
Mihi ignosce
, magister.’ Hew noted that the boy possessed a literal turn of mind, that clever as it was, did not respond to puns.

Giles assured him, ‘
libenter
.’

‘A student,’ he inferred, in an aside to Hew. ‘I seem to know the face, though I do not think he can be one of ours.’

‘He is Roger Cunningham, Richard’s son,’ said Hew.

‘Ah.’ Giles knew Richard’s history, as it pertained to Hew, and let discretion veil the questions in his mind. ‘Well then, Roger Cunningham, we have met before. I did not recognise you under your disguise. I came once to your house, though you may not remember it.’

To Hew’s surprise, it seemed that Roger did. ‘You talked about the ripples, and the bloody flux.’

‘Just so,’ murmured Giles. ‘A pedantic schoolboy, with a whim to study physick. And now you are full grown, and a student at St Leonard’s.’

‘
Non, Professor, vere
. . .’ Roger glanced at Hew.

Giles misunderstood the cause of his confusion. ‘And you prefer it, speak Scots. We are not formal in our dealings with the sick. For sorrow is a thing that may be better expedited when expressed in the vernacular. What think you, Master Hew?’

‘Beyond a doubt,’ Hew smiled. ‘Roger has been in the wars. He won his bloody nose from Andrew Melville’s bully boys, the stalwarts of our kirk. They are a little over zealous in interpreting the text.’

Giles Locke frowned at this. ‘Did Andro set them on? Then I will have a word with him.’

‘In some respects,’ admitted Hew, ‘I set them on myself, with no thought to the consequence. And Roger here has borne the sorry brunt of it. But lest you think him shamefully and over harshly used, I ought perhaps to say he was not blameless in the matter.’

The doctor understood that caution was required, for he asked no further questions as he cleaned the patient’s face, but kept the boy engaged in a cheerful line of chatter, to distract from the discomfort that he must have felt. Roger did not flinch, but let his eyes dart slyly round the doctor’s room. ‘What are all those things in jars?’

‘Organs,’ answered Giles, ‘that were altered with disease, misshapen or malformed. There is a kind of beauty born of their deformity, do you not agree?’

Peculiar to Roger, it appeared he did. Hew had never taken to the pickled parts in pots, though through a close exposure he had grown more used to them. ‘What happened to the pupa you were keeping in this box?’

‘It hatched out to a moth. Pity was,’ the doctor said, ‘it flew full force into the candle flame; that brief flight was its last. Which I suppose must prove a lesson to us all.’ The lesson, in some way, seemed pointed straight at Hew.

Roger overcame his shyness, and his promise to keep quiet. ‘May I ask a question, sir? The word about the college is you keep a human foot here, flayed back to its layers.’

‘Not that, again,’ groaned Hew.

The doctor pursed his lips. ‘Indeed, I kept one once, for purpose anatomical. I do not keep it now.’

‘What happened to it, then?’

‘It caused a deal of trouble I did not care to repeat.’

‘Hear. And be forewarned,’ Hew grumbled in the background.

‘And it was not preserved as well as I had liked.’

‘I should have liked to see it.’ Roger sighed.

‘You and several dozen of your snot-nosed peers. That was part of the problem,’ Giles complained.

‘But I am not their peer. They have no proper interest in the sphere of science, but come to gawp and snigger. I am not like them.’

The doctor paused a moment. ‘Ah, is that a fact? Wait a second there.’ He opened up the closet where he kept things that were precious and selected a large notebook from the row upon the shelf. ‘Would you like to look, then, at the drawings I have made?’

Roger was enthralled. He opened up the notebook with a careful sort of reverence, his eyes lit up afresh at every passing page. Hew smiled to himself. The two were kindred spirits. Each had found a friend.

‘Your nose and cheek are solid,’ Giles concluded, kindly, ‘and will heal in time. I have found no fracture, but a mass of bruising, which will soon subside. A little salve of arnica will help it to go down. You may have it, for a premium, at the Mercat Street apothecar, or from my wife for nothing, if you call at my house. No doubt Master Hew will tell to you the way.’

‘I thank you for your kindness. But I have another question. Was it from a hanging that you had the foot? Was it cut down from a felon?’ Roger pressed.

‘
Enough
, now,’ threatened Hew.

But Doctor Locke answered the boy. ‘Grim, ghoulish creature! Why do you ask?’

‘Because, sir, I understand how things are done. When they hanged the earl of Morton, they cut off his head, and stuck it on a spike. That was at the tolbooth, not far from my house.’

Roger’s family home, on Edinburgh’s Lawnmarket, looked out on the High Gate and its place of execution. God knew what sights and sounds had filtered through its gallery.

‘His head was on the post for almost eighteen months. I made some pictures of it, but I do not have them still. I know that in that passing it had changed a lot. There was a time you could not have worked out what it was, before the craws had pecked it cleanly off the bone. The limbs were wrapped in candle, and
were sent abroad. I wondered if a foot of his had somehow ended here.’

‘We may be thankful, not,’ said Giles. ‘The foot was from a man who lost it in an accident, and left it with the surgeon, who sold it on to me. There is a nice exactness in enquiring of its provenance; I wonder at it, still.’

Hew broke in at last, ‘Your face is clean and sound. Say thank you to the doctor now, and wait for me outside.’

Roger looked confused. ‘But sir . . . I thought you said . . . did I do something wrong.’

‘
Now
.’

Roger took the hint, and did as he was told. Giles Locke asked perceptively, ‘What have you to tell me, Hew?’

‘The boy is in some trouble.’

‘So I had supposed. And he is Richard’s son.’

‘He tells me,’ Hew went on, ‘that he did not know his father, that he has no recollection of his father’s death, that he does not recall my coming to his house. How could that be so? He was twelve years of age.’

‘Interesting,’ said Giles.

‘Yet he remembered you. And he described to us the aftermath of Morton’s death, that took place at that time. I wondered if perhaps he had suffered a concussion.’

Giles considered this. ‘I saw no signs of one. And yet it could be true; the dreadful understanding that took Richard from him may have become detached and buried in his mind, or somehow was eclipsed by Morton’s execution; which memory has served to take the other’s place.’

‘But to forget a father, surely, were not natural.’

‘Who, in truth, can say? There is no balm or physick for the soul’s disturbances, and no clear understanding of the way it works. And what is strange to us, may not be so in him. Who, indeed, can say, what is or is not natural? Nature is uncouth, and nature is unkind, and nature holds more contradictions than are sometimes shown to
us. The end of our poor science is to find those secrets out. And Roger is a riddle we may yet unfold.’

‘I hoped you might say that.’ Hew spilled out his tale.

‘Now let me set this straight,’ Giles posed at the end of it. ‘You want me to admit and welcome to St Salvator’s a boy who is expelled, a boy who spends his leisure hours anatomising cats, and wipes the devil’s arse with Andrew Melville’s door?’

‘That,’ conceded Hew, ‘is about the sum of it. So, what do you say?’

The doctor beamed at him. ‘My dear friend, need you ask?’

Chapter 15

Clare

Clare Buchanan’s brother George lay stretched out on his college bed, pleased with his new friend. Roger stood awkward, polite. Since the one small stool was piled with George’s books, and George took up the bed, there was nowhere left to sit. He waited, with an air of deference that appealed to George, who was unaccustomed to it. ‘You can move the papers, if you like.’

‘Thank you.’ Roger Cunningham acknowledged the concession, but did not act upon it, so that George felt obliged to rise up from the bed and move the books himself, setting down his papers in a neat pile on the floor. ‘You can sit down if you like.’

‘Thank you.’ Before George understood he had conceded his advantage, Roger took his place on the middle of the bed, leaving him adrift, standing by the stool. George said, ‘Oh, that is not what I . . .’ tailing off at the sight of Roger’s swollen face, bloodied black and bruised.

‘Were you in a fight?’

Roger shook his head. There was nothing in his manner that might clearly mark a threat, but his quiet reticence rang warning bells with George.

‘Then what did you do?’

‘Oh,
things
.’

‘Oh.’

Doctor Locke had ruled that Roger’s previous history must not be discussed, which had done little to damp down the rumour in the college. It was widely known that he was in disgrace. Some said
he was a murderer, who had escaped from hanging through a narrow loophole worked by Master Hew. Some said Hew had found him living in the jakes. For now, for safety’s sake, George let the matter rest.

Roger said, politely, ‘This bed is quite soft.’

George resigned himself to settling on the stool. ‘Aye, it is. No doubt they will send in some more furniture for you. Where are all your things?’

‘They took them,’ Roger said, ‘but I do not know where.’

George took one last fond look over his possessions, silently accounting for the blankets, pens and books.

‘You can share mine if you like,’ he allowed, reluctantly.

‘Thank you,’ Roger said. ‘But I do not like to share.’ He stood up from the bed, and walked to the small window that looked back upon the cloisters. ‘What is it like here?’

Roger had left a small dip in the counterpane, which George was quick to smooth, securing once again his place upon the bed. In all ways that were possible, he felt on safer ground. ‘Here? It’s no so bad.’ And he told Roger all, of lectures in the hall and college disputations, early morning prayers and afternoons in class, of cabbage kale and sausages and of his trials with Cicero, of Doctor Locke’s collections and of Bartie’s phlegm, of winter days and summer evenings spent at golf and caich. Roger, all the while, stared out at the grounds. It was not clear that he heard. ‘I’m sure that you will like it here,’ George concluded, flatly. ‘On Wednesdays, we have our sport, and practise at the butts. Did you ken, that at St Mary’s they once set up butts and an arrow caught a baxter, clean richt through his hat? The loun was a’ but killed.’

Roger showed no interest. ‘I have not heard that.’

‘It’s true. But Doctor Locke says we may not set up butts here in the college, but we maun gang out to the green, for Doctor Locke says, we have had enough trouble with baxters withouten we inflame them, by shooting at their caps.

‘I knocked a baxter doon once, a muckle massive man.’ To George’s disappointment, this had no effect. Whatever Roger’s crime, it must be worse than that. That was a troubling thought. ‘But since I broke my arm I cannot lift the bow, so Master Hew has learnt me to play caich. Do you play caich?’

This had struck a chord. For some reason, Roger scowled. ‘No,’ he said abruptly. Then, ‘What like is Master Hew?’

George Buchanan shrugged. Instinct told him he should hide how much he owed to Hew, who had saved his place here, and, perhaps, his life. ‘Master Hew is kind enough,’ he allowed at last. ‘When you go wrong, and are called to account for it, he lets you explain it in Scots.’

‘That is not kindness,’ Roger contradicted. ‘It is a lawman’s trick, to make you speak your mind. Speak Latin, and you have to take your time, to think and shape the words. You have a moment then, to plot what you will say. They cannot see you thinking out the lie, and since the tongue is not your natural one, your voice will not betray it. You have to think much quicker in the Scots.’

‘Oh!’ George was impressed. ‘I see. That’s subtle, though. I had not thought of that.’

‘It does not matter much, for you,’ Roger said, dismissively. ‘For you are but a bairn, and he can see right through you, whatever tongue you speak. You may as well confess at once, and bear the brunt, and be done with it. There’s little that will save your skin but bluther, bleat and tears.’

George said, affronted, ‘I am no more a bairn than you are.’

‘Is that so?’ Roger turned to look at him, with shrewd dark searching eyes, deep set and unblinking in his swollen face. ‘I am one hundred years old. How old are you?’

‘How can that be?’ George challenged him, disconcerted nonetheless.

‘It cannot be. I made it up, to torment you.’

‘Oh.’ George did not have an answer to this strange, unblinking boy, who did not intimidate exactly, but unsettled all the same.
‘Well, be that as it may, Master Hew is good to me. I think it is because he likes my sister, Clare.’

‘Does he?’ Roger came back from the window to perch on the edge of the stool, his grey eyes clear and thoughtful in his black bruised cheeks. A careful and most proper boy, thought George, uncertain why this calm reserve had ever seemed a threat.

‘Then mebbe he will marry her, and he will be your brother? How would you like that?’

George giggled girlishly. ‘I should not mind it much. But he never will be that. For my sister is married already, to Robert Wood, the brother of the coroner.’

His new friend smiled. ‘Is that a fact?’

As May turned to June, life proceeded peacefully. Roger seemed to settle and to blossom at St Salvator’s, under Giles Locke’s wing. Andrew Melville’s lectures finished for the term, passing without incident; his students had begun their practice in the kirk. Andrew’s nephew James still had not returned, but fell into the grip of a debilitating fever, confirming what Dod Auchinleck had frequently suspected, that grave dangers were attendant on the conjugal embrace. Dod himself fulfilled his penance, under Melville’s styptic eye, and preached a quaking sermon on the perils of the flesh, before a largely sceptical and unforgiving crowd. There were no further mysteries, to Hew’s no great surprise, but late one balmy night the draucht-raker arrived. The sink was cleared at last, and buried in the sediment was found a little bow, which Melville packaged up, and had sent on to Hew. It was smaller than the longbows in the college armoury, but too large to be hidden underneath a coat. Primitive and light, it looked as though it might be carried by a child. Hew showed the bow to Roger, who acknowledged with a smile, ‘It is a pellock bow. Country people use them to shoot rooks down from trees. They hunt for them at night, and blind the birds with lights. They shoot the bows with pellets, or else little stones. Where did you find this one?’

‘In Andrew Melville’s sink.’

‘Then it has cleaned up well.’

‘Does it belong to you?’

Roger shook his head. ‘I had a little longbow, when I was a bairn. Once I shot a crow. But that was by mistake. I am no good at sports.’

His regent had confirmed that Roger’s aim was poor. He made little progress shooting at the butts. Yet Hew was quite certain Roger was involved. ‘I will find out the truth,’ he warned. Roger simply smiled. ‘I expect you will. And I would like to hear it when you do.’

Though Hew was well aware the boy was playing games with him, he let the matter rest. He wanted to discover how the trick was done, to satisfy himself, but was generous enough to accept defeat. He saw the boy was happy now, and had not been before, and that must be enough. There was a deeper magic there that coloured his wan face, transformed the lonely boy, as he showed Doctor Locke some piece of shell or bone or insect he had found.

Giles, for his part, was delighted with his pupil, and spoke warmly of his progress. He spent more time in college, and less time at home. At the little house, the building work was slow. Canny had complained about the morals of the workmen, and they had been replaced. The new ones were more civil, and more careful with their feet, but the noise and dust wore on. Hew invited Meg and Matthew back to Kenly Green, but Meg saw patients still, and would not leave the town. John Richan came to call on her, whenever he had leave. And she looked forward to the visits from the wild and lonely boy who sang to Matthew in the Norn, and told stories, far from home. In Giles’ absence, Paul went out, to court the widow Bannerman, leaving them in peace. Matthew Locke cut two new teeth, and lived on, unscathed.

At Kenly Green, the physick garden blossomed and died back; broom buds clustered darkly, fruit formed on the trees. The gardeners did their best to gather in the leaves. Nicholas went on with his translation of Buchanan, filling up his hours with the
tyranny of kings. The miller’s son caught sticklebacks, and fed husks to the sow.

The sergeant of the castle guard kept his soldiers to the watch, and worked John Richan hard. He saw to it the bowman’s hurt had little chance to heal. The brethren of the holy kirk accepted Melville’s plea, and let the bishop rest awhile, acquitted of his charge. Patrick kept himself aloof, and rarely left his bed. He came out only once, on a visit to his wife, when he passed the Holy Trinity, and did not go inside. Some said that they saw his shadow running with a hare, and thought he was complicit in a dark and secret act. His sickness persevered. The physick wife came with her bottles, several times a week. Hew came across her once, selling herbs and posies at the market cross. He bought from her a bunch of rosemary and rue, yet he could find in Alison no hint that she remembered him. He hung the herbs up on a nail to brighten up his room, and they were green and fresh enough to make the room sweet still, when he received a visitor, whose coming marked a change, as though somehow the physick wife had known him after all, and cast a secret spell on him, that turned his warm heart cold as stone, and all his hopes to dust.

Hew was at the college, reading in his room, when the porter came. ‘The woman is here, and is asking for you. She wants to have a word, about her brother George.’

Hew nodded. ‘Show her in.’

‘In here?’ It was a tired formality they went through every time. The porter made a point of marking disapproval, and Hew made a point of continuing regardless. He knew that his objections would not find a voice. What happened in the college stayed within the college; and all talk of indiscretion stopped at Doctor Locke.

‘As I say.’

He had time to smooth the cushions and to button up his coat before the man announced, ‘Mistress Clare Buchanan.’

Clare
.

She had the power to transform him to a blushing boy. It did not help that he saw her only in the college, in that bare boy’s chamber he had taken for the purpose, on those rare short stolen moments when he should have been at work. He placed her in the leaf green chair, in the corner by the window where the light fell soft and searching, shadowing her face. The sunlight caught the ripples in the satin of her dress, her white hands settled quietly, gathered in her lap.

‘I have come about George.’

Always she said she had come about George. The first time she had come, she had wanted Doctor Locke. She had found Hew in his place, and had thought him sharp and cruel. When she knew him better, she had found out her mistake. She had sought his help, and he had stilled her fears, and kept her brother safe. When Hew returned from Flanders, he had brought her lace. She wore it at her throat. Yet there was a reserve between them. Clare was sad and serious, and kept herself apart. There was a husband, too, between them, Hew did not forget.

‘He writes to me,’ she said, ‘that now that he is well, my visits here are irksome to him, and I should desist, for no one else has sisters here, wailing in their wake.’

‘Whatever we have taught him here, it seems it were not manners,’ Hew said, with a groan. ‘I will speak to him.’

‘I do not wish you to. Or not, at least, on that. We both know he is right.’ Clare looked at her hands, as if surprised to find them there, folded in her lap. She did not look at Hew. ‘I have spoken to his regent, and he tells me George is well, and that he has a new friend. He says he lags behind a little with his Cicero, but that might be expected, following his accident, and soon to be amended with a little effort on my brother’s part. He tells me you have helped him to recover his weak arm, by playing him at caich.’

‘Giles Locke recommends it,’ answered Hew.

‘You have given up your time, for which we are most grateful. Since I think it likely I will not come again, can I dare to ask, will you do one last thing? For you have always been so very kind to us.’

His voice came hoarsely, then. He wondered if she saw, and if she understood, the flood and rush of feeling forced back and suppressed. ‘You know I will,’ he said.

‘When all is said and done, will you do well by George?’

‘You have not known me at all, if you have to ask me that question.’

‘It is not what you think, Hew,’ she sighed. ‘George looks up to you, and you have his trust. I hoped you might be willing to give him some advice, since you are acquainted too with matters of the law.’

‘He has that, freely, always, as and when he chooses.’

‘But we both know, he will not always choose. Sometimes the right course must be chosen for him. The fact is,’ Clare explained, ‘our father is thought likely soon to pass away. He is of an advancing age; George was his last and late-born child and one surviving son. He stands then to inherit a considerable estate. Our fear is that the fortune will distract him from his studies, and he will squander it, long before he comes to the good sense of his majority, like our present king. For there is no clearer example of the dangers of a young man given free rein of his purse. My husband, Robert Wood, is most sensible of this, since his brother Andrew has discharged the young king’s debts. I love my brother very much, but even I concede he is a foolish, bairn-like boy, and he has not the wit to manage his expenses. My husband is inclined to remind him, he has little to commend him to the scholar he was named for.’