Hue and Cry (20 page)

This done, there remained the question of Tom. Unless he was married, as the baxter pointed out, his crime became the greater one of simple fornication, and Brooke was all for nailing the lad by the lug to the tron. He would do it himself as a warning, quite gladly. But the minister had intervened again, arguing that Tom had expressed his willingness to marry, and if the lass could not be found to marry him, then he could not be blamed. That was on the first account, and on the second, the boy had already spent some nights imprisoned, not in the comfort of their own kirk steeple – where the beadle as they knew exercised his kind attentions on the prisoners – but in the tolbooth gaol, by all accounts a hellhole. All this for a crime that he had not committed, but of which he was suspected as the direct result of his unhappy fornications. And on the third account, his master, Archie Strachan the weaver, had imposed the most severe and lasting penalties upon the youth, both spiritual and corporal, and having brought him to a proper and most abject state of repentance, might vouch for his future behaviour, with five or more pounds for the poorbox. The fourth account, the loss of his lass, they discounted as nothing to Tom.

So it was concluded that he must ‘stand for three Sundays barefoot in sackcloth inside and out of the kirk; make true confession and repentance in the face of the whole congregation, and be fined forty shillings.’ His master paid the fine for him, on whatever private terms it was not the session’s business to inquire. Of his three weeks of penance today was the first. The minister had seen the boy positioned by the door at half past five, long before the bairns were come to snigger and throw stones at him. Cowed and trembling in his shirt, he set a pitiful example to them all.

At the third bell, Meg and Hew Cullan began their struggle down the street, lugging their cousin’s oak settle between them. It was a heavy compromise, but Robin Flett’s parting demand of a seat for his wife had held firm: ‘She cannot sit without a back in her condition, man! If she insists on going to kirk, then you must take a chair for her.’

The chair, the only one in the house, was inordinately burdensome, and as the lady in question was too delicate to help, she walked a pace or two behind, daintily distancing herself from the foolishness of the spectacle. Fortunately, the kirk was no more than a matter of yards and having staggered in and placed the chair in the selected spot, all three of them were able to sit down on it, to face a blaze of envy, ridicule and scorn. Lucy professed herself faint from the walk. Indeed, she coloured slightly and intimated that perhaps she might be better to go home again. But Hew ignored her, stretching out his legs to stake their claim, and glowered at anyone who looked likely to attempt to filch their seat.

Holy Trinity was far greater and noisier than the chapel of St Leonard, and now that the reader was finishing his lecture and the minister stepped forth, it was filling with townspeople, children and dogs, all fighting over stools and for a place within the shadows near the door. There were no seats installed, the sermons were long, and the damp floor smelt of a sinister, sweet rotting foulness below.

‘Now that we’re come, we’ll stay for the sermon,’ Hew told Lucy firmly. ‘Look at the penitent, Meg! It’s Tom Begbie!’

Tom had come into the kirk as prescribed, to face the congregation. He stood stark and shivering up by the pulpit, lost as to the part he had to play. The minister concluded his discussions with his elders, which appeared somewhat heated, and mounted the stand without glancing at Tom. He appeared about to speak when he caught sight of something, and instead he gave a full, exasperated sigh. In a broad fruity accent Hew swore was assumed, he thundered, ‘Wha’s taken yon cutty stool noo?’

The congregation shuffled into silence. Even the dogs looked up expectantly. Tom began to stammer, as if compelled to answer, but the minister ignored him, speaking to the crowd.

‘Which of ye has taken the stool of repentance to comfort his ain idle arse?’

Hew thought he cast a contemptuous glance at that point to the three of them sat on the settle.

‘Whichever of ye has it, put it back to its rightful purpose, or ye shall discover that true rightful purpose yersel’. The cutty stool is no fer sittin’ on.’

No one moved.

With another great sigh, the minister spoke in a voice loud and slow as if to the wee’st of weans. ‘Very well. I will turn ma back.’ He did so quite emphatically. ‘And I will coont ter ten. And whan I turn roond again, yon cutty stool will be back in its place, and yon sad transgressor,’ he gestured at Tom, ‘will be standing on it as is proper in the face of all ye guid and honest folk. And if it is not as I say, then Maister Blair the beadle will be roond with his staff and will hoik up the skirts of all of the lassies and laddies forby till he
finds
the thing, and ye would do well to remember the eighth commandment, wad ye no’, and the
tenth
.’

A woman seated not so far from Hew flushed red and reluctantly lifted her dress, revealing the stool, which passed from hand to hand until it reached the front. Someone helped the boy ascend it. Blind to the commotion, the minister turned round on the count of ten and gave a saintly smile.

‘Weel now, you maun ask your man to buy you a stool for to sit on, or else ye’ll sit doon in the stoor,’ he advised the culprit. ‘Now that’s said and understood, we’ll mak a start. And when our sermon’s done, we’ll let the young lad here set forth his sad confessions, his most filthie fornications, and a’ that. Face the congregation, son,’ he exhorted kindly, ‘for I’ve nae desire to look on you mysel.’

There followed a mutter and rustling as the service settled down, as best it could, into the psalm. The minister set out the hourglass and beamed at them.

‘Weel noo, I’ve a treat for ye all, who canna but help yersels snoring awa’ through the sermon, for I’ve a mind to change the ordinar today – aye, and ye may glower and ye will at me, Tam Brooke the baxter, but for seven weeks we’ve heard the second verse of Samuel and the bairns are awfy sick of it, so this morning
we’ll hae a wee change for oorsels and stir oorsels up fae oor slump. We’ll take as oor lesson the seventh commandment. And for all we come fresh to it noo, it may furnish twa turns o’ the glass; which is to say, Tom Begbie, you being so conveniently placed here this morning, ye may turn her over when the sand’s run through; we’ll treat oorsels and hae the second hour.’

His words were undermined a little by an infant’s cry. It had started with a grizzle, a low undertone that echoed but did not obscure his voice, but now, as he began the sermon proper with an ominous slow turning of the glass, the wailing had increased in its intensity, until he struggled to be heard.

‘Silence that bairn! What do you there, child? Where are your parents?’ The beadle could stand the yowl no longer, and thundered through the church, prodding his staff at a small scowling girl. Hew turned towards the source of the commotion. The child was Jennie Dyer, crouched on the dirt floor with Geordie, Nan and Susan, and the discontented baby bawling at their feet. Jennie had run out of candies, or tiring of the lesson, had pinched the infant’s bottom to ensure an early close. Struggling to her feet, she rearranged her plaid with dignity, pulling the fat baby up into its folds.

‘Ah, tis you, Jennie Dyer,’ the beadle backtracked.

‘Aye.’ She played to the crowd. ‘And my
faither
lies cold in the kirkyard. And my
mither
lies abed. Her time has come. My brother Will has gone to fetch the midwife, who’s after a baby at one of the farms. And my brother James,’ she shot him a savage dark look, ‘sits up there with the Strachans, for he disna care to bide with us. And the bairn
won’t
be still. It’s yon great booming voice,’ she pointed at the pulpit, ‘that maks her greet.’

‘If ye cannot keep them quiet, lassie,’ the beadle roared back, ‘ye will have to go out.’

‘Aye, and we shall.’ And with that she bundled out her little brood before her, with as close to a flounce as her heavy burden of the baby would allow, Geordie and Susan and Nan trotting silent and submissive by her side. Their older brother seemed to
shrink between the Strachans, perhaps at his prayers still, hands to his face.

‘Tsk,’ observed a wifie, ‘bold baggage.’

The preacher cleared his throat and carried on. After these initial distractions, he was able to warm to his theme, and gradually the congregation settled, with only a cough and occasional snore, the slight smothered cry as the beadle hoiked up a plaid with his creek or prodded some sly sleeper from his dreams. So it fell comfortably still, and for almost an hour the voice had rumbled on, when suddenly the door flung open and the napping dogs startled and scattered, resuming their yapping once more. And here was Jennie Dyer come again, but with a fresh demeanour, no longer defiant but tearful and hoarse.

‘Please, you must come help our mother. She’s bad with the bairn, for she can’t push it out, and Will’s not come back with the midwife. I’m feart she will die.’

‘For shame, lass, in the
kirk
!’ There was a general tutting.

Rank hypocrisy, thought Hew, given their delight in Tom’s misfortunes, from the ladies in the crowd. The girl began to cry.

‘Will no one come?’

There fell an awkward silence, while the minister himself had paused, perplexed, until Agnes Ford the wife of Archie Strachan rose up from her stool and resolutely said, ‘I’ll go to her.’

Hew was intrigued by the violence of her husband’s response. For Strachan pulled her down with unexpected force. ‘Nay, you will not go! You’ll bide where you are now and hear out the preacher his text!’

She replied with great meekness, covered her head, and sank to her knees out of sight. As Hew wondered what occasioned this charade, his sister stood beside him, tying fast her cloak.

‘I will go,’ Meg said quietly. ‘Stay here, Hew, and see Lucy home.’

In conscience he could not dissuade her, though Lucy made her protests clear enough.

‘God speed you,’ he whispered, ‘I’ll come when I can.’

* * *

The sermon seemed interminable, for the minister fulfilled his promise of a full two heavy hours, and Hew could swear the glass was stopped for ever halfway through the second one. At last it was concluded, the banns and blessings were proclaimed, and finally, Tom stammered his confession, a most colourless account of his woes. Lucy was tying her strings when the minister came bearing down upon them and held out his hand.

‘I am glad indeed to see you well enough to come today, Mistress Linn. And provided for in safety. Who’s your friend?’

Lucy blushed and simpered, pleased with the attention. ‘This is my cousin Hew Cullan, who is a graduate of the university here and recently returned from France to take up a post at the college. His sister Margret, who has gone to help the dyer’s wife, is to live as my companion while my man’s abroad.’

‘That must be a comfort.’ The minister turned then to Hew, and spoke, as he had suspected, in clear scholar’s tones without trace of the vernacular. ‘Good day to you, sir, and you’re welcome. We don’t see many scholars in the town kirk. I’ll be glad to sit and talk with you one day. It is a fine thing your sister has done in helping those poor children. I fear our wives want charity, at least where that sad family is concerned. But tell me, is it the regent’s place you take here at St Leonard’s?’

‘I’m afraid so. Nicholas Colp is a friend of mine. Do you know him, sir?’

‘Only by name. He’s another lost soul, so I’ve heard. But let us not cast stones.’ He changed the subject tactfully. ‘The public examinations for university bursaries are about to take place. I wonder, have you influence in their result?’

Hew shook his head. ‘I shouldn’t think so. I shall of course be present, but I believe the principal will have the final say. Why do you ask?’

‘I have a boy in the parish I would like to propose as a bursar. But I doubt there’s much hope.’

‘You don’t think him a strong enough candidate?’

The minister gave him an odd look. ‘I think him exceptional.
But I have put young men forward for scholarships before, boys of great promise, yet none has proved successful. The fact is, sir, that your college of St Leonard has not admitted a single poor scholar in the past three years. The master puts out that none met the standard.’

‘Truly? You amaze me. I thought the statutes made provision for twelve bursars in all. There are only two among the magistrands.’

‘As I believe. Well, you will observe the examinations, as shall I. Perhaps you will honour me with your opinion of my charge, whatever the outcome?’

‘Gladly. But I cannot think that if the boy shows promise as you say he would be turned away. Moreover, I have a friend appointed to the chair of St Salvator’s, whose word will have weight, and who will not take part in wrong practice.’

‘Ah, the mediciner. I’ve heard something of him. Well, I will let you get on. That’s an impressive piece of furniture you have there with you. I wonder how you mean to take it home?’

‘It belongs to Lucy’s husband,’ Hew said wryly, ‘and is the price I paid for coming with her to your most pungent sermon. I had wondered whether I might leave it in the kirk?’

‘Well, you might,’ he sounded dubious, ‘if Robin Flett did not care much to have it back. But to my eyes, who have nothing so grand in my own house, it looks to be of value in proportion to its ugliness, and I do not rate your chances of still finding it in half an hour, let alone next week. I have a better idea. You see, I have forgotten to dismiss Tom from the cutty stool. Come, Tom. This gentleman requires some help home with his settle. You may take the other end.’

Tom came, remarkably truculent. ‘My master expects me at home.’

‘Well then, he has no business to, upon the Sabbath. You may count it in your penance. Go then, take the bulk of it, you’re strong. I shall see you, sir,’ he added to Hew, ‘if not before, then at the examinations. Pray convey to your sister my kindest regards.’

Lucy Linn moved surprisingly quickly. Before Hew and Tom had struggled more than a step with their burden she had turned down the alleyway into her house. By the time they arrived, she was nowhere to be seen, no doubt already resting in the upper rooms, recoiling from or sulking at the morning’s rude excitements. Tom dropped the settle by the door and was about to leave when Hew placed a restraining hand on his shoulder. Through the rough cloth he felt the boy tense. He seized the opportunity.