Fate & Fortune E-Book

Shirley McKay

• Herausgeber: Polygon
• Kategorie: Krimi
• Serie: The Hew Cullan Mysteries
• Sprache: Englisch

Seitenzahl: 539

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2011

Beschreibung

1581, Edinburgh. Running from his new responsibilities as head of the family in St Andrews, young lawyer Hew Cullan arrives in the vibrant capital of medieval Scotland. There he plans to publish his late father's book and quietly endure the completion of his legal training under an old family friend. Life in the whirl of Edinburgh is full of dangers and distractions for Hew. Beautiful women, fashionable living and the treacherous world of the law threaten to turn his head. But a brutal murder and hints of a long-hidden mystery draw him into a deadly game against an unrepentant foe. When the game is murder, can Hew Cullan play to win? Fate & Fortune is the second Hew Cullan mystery by Shirley McKay.

Leseprobe

Fate & Fortune

A Hew Cullan Mystery

Shirley McKay

for mum and dad with love

Grateful thanks to Lance St John Butler, who, like Hew, is both a scholar and a player of the game of caich. He was kind enough to read through parts of the chapter entitled ‘A Game of Chases’ and advise on its complexities. The mis-hits there are mine, not his.

IF in my weake conceit (for selfe disport)

The world I sample to a Tennis-court,

Where Fate and Fortune daily meet to play,

I doe conceive, I doe not much misse-say.

All manner chance, are Rackets, wherewithall

They bandie men like balls, from wall to wall:

Some over Lyne, to honour and great place;

Some under Lyne, to infame and disgrace;

Some with a cutting stroke, they nimbly send

Into the hazzard placèd at the end

William Lathum

Phyala lachrymarum. Or a few friendly tears … 1634.

Contents

Title PageDedicationAcknowledgmentsEpigraphMapsLenten FarePrayers for the DeadA Winter’s TaleHuman RemainsThe Senzie FairA Game of TricksBloodlinesRites of PassageThe Kindness of StrangersThe DevilmasterChristian HallWilful ErrorFamily TiesA Corbie MessengerLines of InquiryCatherineBlackfriars WyndThe Hanging ManThe Borough MuirThe Bairn’s PartA Pack of LiesDevil’s AdvocateMorbus GallicusFalse ImpressionsFast and LooseCalton CragsA Game of ChasesLast Will and TestamentThe Lion HouseAbout the AuthorCopyright

Lenten Fare

St Andrews, Scotland March 1581

In St Andrews, it began to snow, soft at first, insistent, blowing white upon the market place. The wind dropping back, as though tired of its game, allowed the snow to settle on the buiths and stalls, where shopkeepers hurried to withdraw their wares, brushing the flakes from the sills. From his house on the Castlegait, the physician Giles Locke looked out upon the white-rimmed cliffs, gloomily rubbing his beard. A single gull swept from the wall of the castle, circled once and dipped into the salt waves out of sight. Giles watched it in disgust. Five weeks into Lent, and bleak as winter still. He felt his wife’s departure keenly. Only Meg could lighten endless days of fish and coax a hint of sweetness from the rankest kale. Yesterday, in an attempt to cheer his palate, the servant had roasted a herring gull over the fire. The doctor’s belly lurched in recollection. The oiled clumps of seaflesh, tasting of fish, had marked its lowest ebb. In retrospect he thought he would prefer to eat his candle, and for all the light it gave, he might as well. Doctor Locke was out of humour. For how could a man be sanguine, in this raging wind and cold, without the proper comfort of good meat?

In the midst of this melancholic self-diagnosis – wet and windy, he decided, with a surfeit of black bile – he perceived his servant urging at the door, ‘Do you not hear me, professor? There’s someone here would speak with you.’

Mournfully, Giles shook his head. ‘Ah, not today. We must be gone within the hour. Advise him, Paul.’

The servant stamped impatiently. He blew the chill from his fingertips. ‘Aye, and I tried. But yon will not be swayed. A man of means, no doubt. He’s sick, for sure, and draggle damp wi’ snow.’

His master groaned. ‘As we will both be, presently. Bid him call again tomorrow, if he must.’

‘I did not think, sir, you would leave him in the cold. I have him here, withal.’

‘I told you, no …’

But the protest came too late. For Paul had admitted the stranger and the doctor had observed at once, despite himself, that the man looked sick at heart. A man perhaps of thirty-five, dressed for the cold and the fashion, a little tight and pinched about the face. He brought with him a flurry of snow. His cheeks were flushed, and though he stood trembling, Giles hazarded the cause was not the cold.

‘Professor Locke,’ the stranger whispered. ‘Thank the lord!’

‘I pray you leave your name upon the morrow,’ said the doctor brightly, hope in the ascendant, ‘I have business out of town, and do not consult today.’

‘For pity, though,’ the signs were inauspicious, for the man was on his knees, ‘I have come across the Tay in hope of seeing you.’

The doctor sighed. ‘There, there. You come across the water, in this season, sir? And I see you have an ague. You had better stayed at home.’

The stranger had rallied sufficiently, noticed Doctor Locke with sinking heart, to settle in the doctor’s favourite chair. Open-armed, a gossip chair, well plumped and padded with pillows, placed precisely to capture the last of the light, the full of the warmth of the fire. Giles conceded the advantage with reluctance, while the patient gave a deprecating cough.

‘A little fever, aye, a chill about my bones. I lay at the ferry port last night. Yet I must return today. I beg you, sir, a moment of your time.’

The cheeks below their blush were blotched and scabbed. The throat throbbed damp with sweat.

‘Sit closer to the fire,’ surrendered Giles at last. ‘I warn you, I may not delay for long. But my servant here will pour you something hot. A caudle, Paul! What ails you, sir, that you consult so far from home? Are there surgeons none across the Tay?’

‘Surgeons, aye!’ the man said bitterly. He took the cup from Paul. ‘Need your servant stay?’

Doctor Locke considered this. Then he remarked briskly, ‘Indeed, he need not. Paul, you may prepare our cloaks and blankets for the ride. Pray God, the skies will clear. You see, we are embarking on a journey, sir. Ah, well, a moment, then. Why are you come to me?’

The man replied faintly, ‘I have heard your reputation, and have means.’

‘I do not doubt it,’ Giles said dryly. ‘You are a burgess, perhaps?’

‘A merchant, aye.’

‘How long have you been troubled with this fever?’

‘A week, perhaps ten days. It comes and goes.’

Giles tutted. ‘Aye, for sure. What ails you else?’

‘A roughness in the throat, an aching in the bones. It is a common rheum, I doubt, no more,’ the man replied.

‘I doubt there is more,’ Giles said severely, ‘else why did you come to me? Have you suffered this before?’

‘Not that I recall.’

The doctor turned to scrutinise him, curious in the firelight. ‘You say your throat is sore; then will you show your mouth? Come here, that I may see you better in the light. You have not noticed lesions on the tongue? And there,’ Giles prodded gingerly, ‘you do not feel a pain?’

The stranger shook his head.

‘Your forehead is a little warm; you sweat, not overmuch. The fever is light. But the cold air, I protest again, can scarcely help you here.’

The man appeared to brighten. ‘Aye, I doubt tis unseasonably raw,’ he answered eagerly. ‘You recommend the fire?’

‘Indeed I do.’

There was an odd note in the doctor’s voice that served to sink the patient back in gloom. But Giles continued cordially, ‘Will you not remove your gloves, and warm them on the coals? Your journey’s long. You came on horseback, I presume?’

‘Fine horse, aye. Came across the water. Nor jibbed to cross the ferry, in this wind.’

Giles raised an eyebrow. ‘Fine horse, indeed. No discomfort in the saddle? Sores, contusions in the fundament?’

The man shifted a little, self-consciously. ‘What’s that? A pain in the arse? Well, you know,’ he answered uneasily, Tis a rough enough ride from the ferry.’

‘For sure,’ the doctor soothed. ‘Well, sir, you’ll take off your gloves. Else, as my mother used to say, you will not feel their benefit. I see you have the scab upon your hands.’

‘What scab?’ the man asked, alarmed, inspecting the backs of his hands. ‘I see no scabs.’

‘Here, on the palms.’ Giles turned them round. ‘Tis slight enough, for sure.’

‘A little chapped and chafing from the cold. It’s nothing,’ shrugged his patient.

Giles persisted quietly. Once resigned to consultation, his relentlessness was thorough. ‘May I trouble you to remove your boots? Ah, yes. We see the same here on the feet.’

‘Why are you washing your hands?’ the merchant demanded.

The doctor had withdrawn discreetly to the corner of the room, where washing cloth, tin jug and basin were assembled on the board. He set down his laver and smiled. ‘Tis a habit I acquired from my young wife. We are not married quite the year, and already I am trailing in her ways. She says I reek of physic, when she wants me soft and sweet. You see I am in thrall to her. Ah, this water’s cold! And yourself,’ he made pleasant inquiry, vigorously drying, ‘are you married at all?’

‘Aye, I have a wife,’ the stranger said suspiciously.

‘Children?’

‘Four.’

‘Four children? Then you’re blessed.’ Giles hung the towel on a peg. ‘And you’re a merchant, well-to-do, and have a buith or shop. And doubtless you must venture overseas at times, in search of foreign markets or to fairs?’

‘At times,’ the man conceded.

The doctor nodded thoughtfully. ‘Then you must miss your wife.’

‘What of it, then?’ Some hidden inference appeared to cause offence, for the man rose abruptly, and began to pull on his boots. ‘Thank you; I take up your time.’

‘You have not had what you came for,’ Giles informed him gravely. ‘Was it not a diagnosis you required?’

The man sat down again. ‘The ague, a light fever,’ he repeated. ‘It will pass.’

‘Aye, it will,’ agreed the doctor.

‘Well then?’ the merchant countered desperately.

The doctor stroked his beard. ‘When were you last abroad?’

‘Four months ago. But that can hardly signify.’

‘I fear it can. Four months ago you went abroad, and now you come to me with fever and a raging throat, with lesions and contusions in the mouth – you have not felt them there? Tis no surprise; they cause no pain, in the present stage. You may observe them in the glass. And you have scabs upon your palms, for which you put on gloves.’

‘For the unseasonable cold,’ the patient protested.

Giles continued unperturbed, ‘And on the soles of your feet. These afflictions are externals, and the province of the surgeon’s art, not mine. Nonetheless, since you consult me, you permit me see the place where this began?’

‘I do not understand,’ the merchant whimpered. Unconsciously, perhaps, he had drawn his thighs close in their cushion. His breech was padded, in the fashion, with a mat of hair.

‘Ah,’ the probe was penetrating, ‘but I think you do.’

There was a moment’s silence, before the stranger fumbled with his hose and opened up the buttons at his crotch. ‘Tis nothing,’ he said hoarsely, ‘and has healed.’

The doctor glanced, and then he touched his blade upon a callous nestling on the hairline like a stone. ‘That does not hurt?’

Wordless, the man shook his head.

‘But there has been a chancre, on the pintle shaft. And that, I think,’ the doctor prodded softly, ‘could not escape your notice after all. And while the pustule here was putrid, or in this last fever, did you lie with your wife?’

The patient whispered, ‘No.’

Giles smiled at him approvingly. ‘Good man; you may do up your breeks. Do not bed her awhile, throughout your present sickness. Or any body else,’ he said in afterthought. ‘While the lesions fulminate, I pray you will not deal.’

‘My present sickness?’ The patient looked up at him. ‘There is still hope, then? It may be cured?’

‘Well, we may treat your symptoms for the while. But as I say, the fever will abate, without the need for physic.’

‘I have money here for medicines,’ pressed the merchant, ‘and your time …’

The doctor shook his head. ‘I will not prescribe them. What you suffer from is not within my sphere. I will write you a recommendation to a surgeon here in town, and he is most discreet, for I see your fears and apprehend them. The treatment for your ill is blister, fire and mercury. This is not rooted in the humours, and it cannot be amended from within. Tis not a moral cause,’ he added gently, ‘that I must refuse you. But I will not take your money, where I cannot make a cure.’

‘Then you are alone, sir. For I know of no other, who would not judge or profit from my pain,’ the patient answered miserably. ‘If it were spoken in our town, that I had caught the Spanish fleas, I should be turned out from my business and the kirk. The symptoms will subside, you say?’

‘Aye, but for a while.’

‘And you recommend the surgeon? Tell me sir, for I have heard such savage things about the pox, the curing some claim worse than the affliction. Tell me, is it as bad as they say?’

‘Well,’ Giles cleared his throat. ‘It is true that some of what you may have heard is spoken unkindly, to punish the afflicted for their sins – from a sense of moral outrage, people do exaggerate the cruelty of the cure. But then again, the surgeons sometimes blunt their knives and heat their irons more fiercely than they need to, in self-righteous self-appointment, as the crueller cure. To speak plain, they see their role to punish as they heal. Nay, sir, I see that I frighten you; that is not my intention. Be assured, the surgeon to whom I recommend you is not one such as those, but curious and gentle as his trade permits. I say this but to serve your question, whence the rumour comes. For, I must confess, I know no better course than mercury. I do concede it rigorous, and not always well effective in remitting the disease.’

‘Then there is no hope,’ the man concluded wretchedly.

‘Come, now, there is always hope,’ Giles consoled him kindly. ‘Find yourself an inn in town, a dinner and a bed. Tomorrow, you may brave the surgeon, while the day is fresh. Good luck to you. Have courage, friend. But now I must be gone. Did I not say? I’m going to a funeral.’

The track to Kenly Green had all but disappeared, and they made a hard journey of it. The doctor’s stone-dark mare, Grey Gillat, had grown slow of late, for reasons that were lost on him. The marschal had pronounced her sound, alluding somewhat cryptically to cruel excessive loads. Which was a patent nonsense, Giles protested, for she was a trotting palfrey, nothing more. ‘What loads does she carry?’ he had roared at Paul, who had shrugged and smiled. For Paul himself, he hired an ancient roan, whose going was unsteady when the path was smooth. Therefore, with the white wind in their faces and the promise of a storm, their progress was a little slower than it might have been. To make matters worse, the servant objected, ‘I do not think, sir, they will have the funeral today. The ground is frozen hard. I think we should turn back.’

‘Since when were you required to think?’ Giles retorted crossly. ‘Be grateful that you do not walk.’

‘Twere quicker,’ Paul said reasonably.

Giles shot him a look. ‘We do not go only for the funeral,’ he answered, a little more graciously, ‘but for your mistress’ sake. Take courage, then.’

Paul nodded dubiously.

‘Besides, there will be bakemeats,’ his master enthused.

They rode on awhile in silence, as Giles pondered the question of Paul’s new-discovered opinions. He did not doubt their source: they came from Meg. The doctor’s wife was skilled in natural lore and medicines, and with his greater learning they had made a practice of a sort. Mostly, they were complementary; sometimes, though, they felt at odds. It had been her idea to share a little knowledge with the servant, Paul, and gradually she taught him to prepare her simples and receipts. Her reasoning was sound, for ignorance, she claimed, bred fear, and Paul already had suspected them of magic, with alarming consequence. Better then to teach him basic truths. The downside, though, was this emboldened insolence; at times, as Giles suspected, neither of them quite allowed his full respect and mystery. He half expected Paul to set up as a quacksalver himself. Now, as if he read his mind, the servant said, ‘So what was it wrong with him, then?’

Giles reined in the horse, which at her present pace could scarcely make her slow, and turned full in his saddle to glare at him. ‘You allude to what, precisely?’ he demanded coldly.

Unabashed, the man continued, ‘Yon sick merchant, frae Dundee. I’ll warrant twas the pox.’

‘And why would you think that?’

‘Man disna cross the wattir in this weather jist to see your face, as famous as ye are.’

Giles fell silent, spurring on the horse, and Paul sensed that he had crossed the line. ‘Though doubtless, sir, you are well kent,’ he ventured timidly.

‘There are many things,’ the doctor deigned to notice, ‘which you do not know. You made mistakes before, which cost us dear. I bid you, be aware of it.’

The servant flushed. In truth, though, it was not the slight that troubled Doctor Locke. His outrage was more feigned than deeply felt. The thought of his last patient preyed upon his mind. Giles considered all with an open circumspection. He was often sceptical, but seldom proud. He followed his convictions where they led, and was prepared to ask for help wherever it might come the most effectively. Even if, he reasoned wryly, that ran counter to reason and sense. Meg was the case most to point. And yet this particular case he was scarcely inclined to discuss with his wife. This was not the first man he had seen in recent days with syphilis, nor, his instincts told him, would it be the last. And aye, of course, Paul had guessed right. For such a man would not care to be treated close to home.

‘Well, well,’ he said at length. ‘Even these old nags have found their way at last. Take them, Paul, seek out the groom, and I’ll walk on before you to the house.’

The house at Kenly Green had always welcomed him. Coming through the gate he saw the flare of candlelight, the warm and smoky comfort of the hearth. He walked through Meg’s walled garden where the light snow dulled his step and ice congealed the bare, ungiving earth. Below, he knew, the pale shoots sheltered; another month would pass and they would flower. The present sad affair did not unsettle him, for Doctor Locke knew death in all its forms. He walked the brittle earth towards a blaze of light.

But something else had caught his eye that did provoke a frown. In the corner by the wall he saw a figure standing, whiter than the snow, frozen still and desolate as any cast in stone.

‘Hew! My dear friend!’ The doctor’s arms went round him fiercely, clutching with the warmth of his great heart.

Hew Cullan smiled a little foolishly and came to life. The wind laced his cheeks with salt tears. ‘Is it too late, Giles?’ he whispered.

He had come across the sea, and through a white storm, discarding one by one his comforts, horses, friends, through sheets of ice and fog too sheer for ship or horseback, still he came, discarding them, intent upon his coming, through the ice and storm. And now that he was come, he could not enter there, but found himself left stricken in the garden, frozen out, for fear.

‘Oh, my dear friend!’ And the bulk that was the doctor, warming and protecting him, whispered through the tears, ‘Dearest, he died a grand death.’

Prayers for the Dead

They were not mourners, most of them, who came to fill their cups at Matthew Cullan’s funeral. The great hall, with its vast beaming hearth and cluster of candles, closeted and cheered the little crowd. The lure that had attracted them was set out on the board: Lenten salmons green and cured; haddocks fried in butter in sweet herb and caper sauce; coddled eggs in chafing dishes, flummeries and flans. Flanking all were four curd tarts, white and green and blue and yellow, almond, spinach, plum and saffron, coloured like the sun. For drinking there were mellowed ales, or gascon clarets dark as blood, set like jewels in pewter cups. And for those who had ventured in late from the snow, there were fire-breathing waters, syrups and cordials, possets and caudles in great foaming pots. These detested confections were pressed on Hew Cullan, as he was brought shivering in to the hearth. ‘For pity, give him air!’

Hew felt an aching sharper than the pricking of his fingers, waking up too quickly from the numbness of the frost. His sister Meg had hold of his hands, rubbing them briskly, pulling him back from the heat of the flames. ‘He must be warmed more slowly, or the frost will bite.’

The grey dogs napping by the fire had had their fill of fish heads, and forgot their master as they slept. Hew drew in his breath. The air felt hot and raw.

‘We had no hope of you. However did you find a ship?’ he heard his sister ask. The colour had returned into his palms; his fingers stung relentlessly, yet she did not relinquish them. He had crossed the sea from France, on the one ship, the last ship, before the white storm, for week on week through waters vast as winding sheets that billowed upwards to the masts, where he had almost died, yet he could not remember it.

‘I came too late,’ he answered, foolish, inarticulate. From weariness and cold, perhaps from grief, he could not shape the words.

Meg held him close to her, breathing his coldness. ‘We were to bury him today, but the ground is frozen hard, and the beadle has sent word the grave is not prepared. Therefore he must lie another night, and God has willed that you are here to watch him with us. Tis providential, Hew.’

He glanced towards the oak stand bed that occupied a dark place in the room, the heavy curtain drawn. Meg shook her head. ‘He is not there. The wright came in this morning and made fast his kist. We placed it in the laich house, where it’s cool.’

Hew longed for escape from the heat and the crowd. He lit a lantern from the fire, and made his way down to the laich house, the low vaulted cellars below the great hall. The space was a warren of chambers, each large enough to form a separate dwelling place, that served as Matthew’s stores. Hew held the lantern aloft, looking in to each room in turn. The outer vaults were stripped bare, but as he ventured further he found casks of ale and wine and grain sacks, lightly dribbling, where the mice had nipped. Deeper still were bottled fruits and rows of apple racks: last year’s pippins wrapped in paper, wizened and soft to the tooth. The place had a leathery sweetness that brought back his childhood. And in the very centre of the vault, in the room adjoining this, he found his father’s dead-kist, lit head and foot by candlelight. As Hew approached, he heard a low voice singing, and a stranger by the coffin turned and smiled, sketching vaguely with his hand. He did not pause to speak, but disappeared into the apple room. Hew stared after him a moment, before he knelt upon the earth, a little awkwardly, and set down his lamp in the dust. Not since he was the smallest child had he come into his father’s house without asking for his blessing, and he tried to ask it now, but could not find the words. The kist was draped in velvet cloth, the sombre fringe brushed against the dust into a deeper darkness still, beyond the reach of candlelight. Hew fingered the drop of the velvet, committing its touch to his heart. A little mud fell crumbling through his fingers, remnant of the mire of other deaths. But he found nothing of his father there. He was relieved when Meg came down to find him, pressing her hands into his.

‘A man was here praying,’ he confronted her. ‘Was it a priest?’

She would not confess it, even to him. Her eyes opened wide in a gesture of surprise. ‘You know it is not proper to say prayers before the dead.’

‘Aye, and so do you.’ Unexpectedly, he grinned. ‘He always had his way. So too in death.’

Then he whispered, desolate, ‘I thought to ask his blessing, Meg.’

‘You had it, always,’ she consoled him. ‘Will you lift the lid?’

He shook his head. He felt unable to express himself, as though he were still in the garden, frozen out from grief or fear, from neither of those things, but a curious remoteness. Meg was talking still. He forced himself to listen.

‘What matters is that that you are here. The pity is that we did not expect you. The house is full tonight, and I have given up your bed, to Master Richard Cunningham, an advocate. Do you know him, Hew?’

‘I know the name. No matter. I will sleep by the fire in the hall. A blanket will serve well enough.’ Weariness had overcome him. He could barely speak.

‘I cannot think it will,’ she answered doubtfully. ‘All this is yours now. This is your house.’

He stared at her, startled, and cried out in anguish, ‘It cannot be, Meg! Do not say that!’

It was coldness, after all, that affected Hew so strangely, for on his second cup of wine, he began to feel revived, and prepared to face the crowd. Giles Locke was talking with a stranger and Hew’s cousin Robin Flett.

‘What irks me,’ Giles expostulated, through a chunk of cheese, ‘is that ministers reforming of the kirk did not reform the fish days.’

Robin Flett assented. ‘Rather than to divorce the fast from Lent, I hear the parliament is minded to extend it.’

Giles, who was swallowing, spluttered at this, while the stranger laughed. ‘Not this year, I hope. But when you have a wife that cooks as well as yours, the fish days cannot hurt so much.’

‘Aye, that’s true,’ Robin Flett leaned forward and poked Giles in the midriff. ‘For all her flaws, she feeds you well.’

‘What do you mean, her flaws?’ demanded Giles.

‘Well, you know, her flaws,’ Robin waved a hand, a little vaguely, in the air, ‘I do not mean that she has many, save the one she cannot help.’

‘What do you mean?’

The stranger interrupted quickly, catching sight of Hew. ‘Master Cullan, I presume?’

Giles recovered his composure. ‘Hew! Are you thawed? Do you know Richard Cunningham? He is a procurator in the Edinburgh courts.’

‘By reputation only, sir.’ Hew addressed the advocate, grateful for the show of tact. ‘I’m glad to see you here.’

Cunningham, Hew judged, was in his early forties; tall and pale-complexioned, sober yet discerning in his dress. His hair was dark, a little grey about the temples, neat and closely cropped. He wore a true black coat, buttoned to the neck with a score of silver buttons, cut in velvet cloth, and his white gloves were slashed at the fingers, showing off his rings.

‘There I have the advantage,’ the advocate observed politely, ‘for I knew you as a child. Your father made me welcome in his house.’

‘I’m afraid I don’t remember. But your name is not unknown to me; nor, I doubt, to anyone who kens the law.’

‘You flatter me.’ The lawyer bowed.

‘Perchance you could do with a lawman, Hew,’ Robin leered unpleasantly. He had been drinking heavily of Matthew Cullan’s wines, and a livid purple smear had spread across his throat. ‘Your father was a rich man, and his legacies are vast. Have you thought how ye might manage them?’

Hew stared at him. ‘I am returned from France this afternoon to find my father dead. Wherefore I confess, I had not turned my mind to it.’

‘Aye, well, ye should. When better than the present, when there’s expert help to hand?’

‘My father’s man of law is based here in the town,’ retorted Hew. ‘When the time is proper to address affairs of business, then I have no doubt that I can call upon his services. I should not presume upon Master Cunningham.’

‘What, say you, yon is too grand?’ his cousin snorted. ‘I’ve yet to meet the lawman who’s o’er grand to grasp at money, and let me tell you, there’s a deal o’ it in sight.’

The advocate ignored this. Mildly, he remarked to Hew, ‘It is the case, I practise from the tolbooth of St Giles, though I do from time to time receive instruction to attend the circuit courts, which is what brings me to Fife. The disposition of wills, and the rest, is, alas, out of my sphere. I have no doubt that your father’s man is sound, for I would ever trust his judgement. Nonetheless, it must be said, my door is always open to you, should there be some service you require.’

‘What did I tell you?’ winked Flett.

‘I am not disposed,’ Hew addressed him coldly, ‘to approach these matters now. But when I do, I full intend to call upon old debts. Tell me, Robin, how’s your ship?’

Robin choked into his cup. ‘Lucy is with child again,’ he changed the subject hurriedly.

Hew raised an eyebrow. ‘Another expense? And so soon?’

‘Not so soon as you think.’ The merchant had recovered. ‘The twins are grown to lusty lads.

‘Have you sons, Master Cunningham?’ he challenged the lawyer. ‘Men must have sons, think you not.’

‘Indeed, I have two, and a daughter, besides. My older boy is placed here at the university, in St Leonard’s college, where I do believe that you were lately regent, Master Cullan.’ Cunningham had turned again to Hew. ‘We were sorry not to find you there.’

‘It’s true, I taught there for a while, to help out a friend,’ Hew answered enigmatically. ‘The college has a new regent, and I understand, another principal, appointed by the king. I’ve heard nought but good of them. How does your boy?’

‘I thank you, well. At first he found the grammar hard, but your father’s secretar, Master Nicholas Colp, was of help to us there.’

‘That man? I would not have him near my sons!’ Flett snorted. ‘I could tell you scandals to disgust you, sir.’

‘No doubt,’ the lawyer said, ‘but I decline to hear them.’

‘What! You balk at scandals! I should think you lawyers thrive on them!’

‘Then you are mistaken, sir. They are the greatest nuisance, for they prejudice the case.’

‘Ah,’ the merchant leaned over and prodded him. ‘But what if they were true?’

The lawyer allowed a faint smile. ‘In court, sir, truth is of no consequence. What matters there is argument.

‘Excuse me. Master Cullan, I believe I see your sister. I must speak with her.’

‘Well,’ the merchant tailed off lamely, ‘as I think I said, tis proper to have sons. Tis high time you gave that wife of yours a child!’ He nudged the doctor. ‘Doctor, heal yourself, I say … but when you come to see us, Hew – Lucy will insist upon it – you will not know my fledglings, fine and fat as any bairns you’ll see. George has four new teeth, and taken quite amiss with it, and Lucy most alarmed, until your good doctor with one of his potions settled it sweetly.’

‘It was Meg’s doing,’ Giles replied brusquely. ‘I had none of it.’ Abruptly, he turned on his heels.

Hew caught up with his friend at the lang board, pouring a goblet of wine.

‘Robin is rude, and the worse in his cups. But you do not usually rise to it,’ he commented.

‘I care nothing for him,’ asserted Giles. ‘Yet he has injured Meg; he calls her flawed.’

‘His wit is dull and pointless; do not let it prick. He means the falling sickness. That was blunt indeed, but not unkindly meant. Her illness is a flaw,’ Hew reasoned gently.

Giles coloured, but conceded, ‘Aye, you may be right. His pinpricks are not worth the flinching. In truth, I am too raw where childbed is the question, for I know the risks. I cannot still my fears. I love her, tis the rub.’

‘What do you mean?’ queried Hew. ‘Is Meg with child?’

Giles shook his head. ‘No, not that.’

‘Then why should you fear? Is she not well?’

The doctor sighed. ‘She is quite well. I do confess, my fear defies good reason. Yet we have been apart some weeks, perforce of your father’s last sickness; and in that time …’ He checked himself hurriedly, ‘Well, it is foolishness. She has been well since Michaelmas, and free from fits, for which we must be thankful.’

He did not seem reassured, but before Hew could probe deeper, he had changed the subject.

‘Well, well, enough of that. How was Paris? Have you found your vocation at last?’

Hew grimaced. ‘I might have had a living there. And yet I could not settle. I was not disposed to stay.’

‘Ah,’ Giles prompted gently, ‘Meg thought you had found a lass.’

‘Did she? Little witch!’ Hew laughed. ‘Aye, I do confess it then. There was a lass. It turned out sour.’

‘I’m sorry for it. These things happen. It was not to be.’

‘In truth, I thought it was. But she construed it differently. She played the coquette, and was true to her kind.’

‘By which I understand you do impugn her race, and not her sex,’ protested Giles, ‘else I should be afraid she broke your heart.’

‘Aye, but for a while,’ Hew answered ruefully, ‘I think she did. No matter, though, tis mended now. But I have done with France, and without my father’s death, I should have come home anyway.’

‘Tis easy to be cozened by the French. They are most inventive in their love. And they can cook, of course,’ reflected Giles.

‘You need not make me out as such a gull,’ his friend objected. ‘I do not doubt the strength of her affections. Only that the pity was, she shared them liberally.’

The doctor patted him ‘Well, well, tis as I said. The girl was French. The loss of that pert temptress is our consolation, since you are come home to us. We’ll find you a Scots lass, sober and constant.’

‘Not yet awhile, I hope!’

‘You might think of it though. You are what, twenty-six? Hew, I hardly like to ask you this, but as your man of physic I presume that I might mention it …’

‘Ah, now that sounds ominous. This will hurt me, I can sense it; don’t put on your doctor’s cap!’

‘I’m serious, though. You say your lass was apt to share her close affections …’

‘Aye, to be more blunt, she spread them thin.’

‘Then she has left you nothing, I suppose, that should concern you? No boils or pustules, sores? You have been in health these past few months?’

Hew stared at him in astonishment, and then broke out laughing.

‘And I did not know you better, Giles, I should take offence! What then, do you take me for? Colette has wounded nothing but my pride.’

‘Ah, I am glad to hear it. Still, if I examine you, twill only take a moment, and you let down your points. It will set your mind at rest.’

‘It does not need setting at rest. Giles, I am astounded that you ask this at my father’s funeral. I assure you, there is nothing of the sort that should concern you. I am well; Colette was well, and we have not consorted for the past six months. Though wherefore I should tell you this, as doctor, friend or brother – shortly to be none of those, if you pursue this course – is far from clear to me.’

‘Forgive me, Hew, I have forgot myself. In truth, I have forgotten you, which is the worse offence. The fact is I have seen so many cases of the Spanish fleas of late that it has fouled good sense.’

‘Ah, the Spanish fleas! Therein lies your error, for the lass was French.’

‘The Spanish fleas is but a name, tis known here as the verolle or the grandgore, or the Spanish pox; the Spanish call it the Italian disease, the Frenchmen call it espagnol and the English call it French, the morbus gallicus. It Italy they know it as the maladie of Naples, save in Naples where …’ Giles postulated seriously. Then he caught Hew’s smile. ‘You’re teasing me, my friend. It’s good that you are home.’

‘Aye, tis well,’ Hew clapped him on the back. ‘Tis well you take my word on it, and do not bid me draw my pistle at my father’s wake. Let us leave the subject. How is Nicholas?’ Hew remembered his old friend. ‘Is he not here tonight? Why then, is he worse?’

‘In one sense, he is worse,’ Giles answered cautiously. ‘In truth, not wholly worse, though not improved. He is frail still, quite frail. For want of good warmth and sunlight, his humours run cold. Since you saw him last, it may be said, in some respects, at least, his health is worse. And yet he is not dead. And since he is alive and has survived the winter and the winter oft does carry off the weakest and the sick, and since he was disposed to die the last time that you saw him, then you might conclude him somewhat better now. Aye, he is quite well. And will be glad to see you.’

‘And I him,’ Hew muttered, too baffled to smile.

A Winter’s Tale

As the party began to disperse, some to find a bed, and some to drink and gossip through the night, Hew found himself alone before the fire. He was closing his eyes and was almost asleep, when a slight cough disturbed him. The lawyer, Richard Cunningham, smiled apologetic ally. ‘Forgive me, Master Cullan, I did not mean to startle you. I had hoped to offer my condolences, apart from present company. Yet you look so peaceful here. I’ll leave you to your thoughts.’

Hew struggled to his feet. ‘I pray you, stay a moment,’ he answered wearily. ‘My cousin Flett was rude to you. I hope you will excuse him. You are welcome in this house.’

‘His words are of no consequence. I meet many men like him. But I wanted to say to you simply, and privately, how much I regret your father’s death. He was – though I should hesitate to say it to his son – almost a father to me. Years ago, when first I did come to the bar, he oversaw my steps. I might say, he shaped me. I have felt his loss.’

‘You were his pupil?’ Hew was moved by the simplicity of his expression. There was a gentleness in the man’s manner that appealed to him, reluctant as he was to be drawn in conversation.

‘I could have had no better teacher.’

‘Thank you, sir. Your words bring comfort. I have thought, these past hours, how little I have known him.’

‘You were always in his heart.’

‘Has my sister seen to your needs here?’ Hew changed the subject abruptly. The advocate bowed.

‘She has been too kind. Your bed is soft and clean. And yet I must confess, it troubles me to take it from you; you have travelled hard, and through the snow, and you have lost a father; and for all its comforts I may not rest easy while I take your place. Will you not share it with me?’

Hew waved a hand. ‘Certainly, no, I shall sleep here. The lamps are lit, the fire is warm; I shall not want a bed. I pray you, sleep easy, as I shall.’

He would not want for sleep; he felt beyond exhaustion, longing to close his eyes.

‘Here, with the servants and dogs?’ the lawyer looked sceptical. ‘You are master of this house. Besides, if I might mention it, you look ravelled to the bone, and your cousin Flett is like to drink into the night. The clamour will disturb you. Come with me, rest in the quietness; or, if you will not, then share a private drink with me, without these distractions. I will not trespass on your thoughts.’

‘You are kind, sir.’ Hew felt the waves of weariness consume him, and he allowed Richard to lead him out like a child into the stillness of his room.

‘Your servants have been good enough to lay a fire in here. Come, sit by the brazier. You’re shivering.’

The lawyer called for drink, settling Hew in close beside the fire. With the solace of good wine, Hew felt refreshed.

‘Shall I leave you to sleep?’ Richard asked politely.

‘I think I will sit awhile. Stay, if you will.’

‘In truth, I should prefer to. For I’m weary now myself.’ Richard loosened off his collar. ‘Ah, these clothes! I know not what they starch this with, tis stiffer than the jougs! The servant has arranged your room most prettily. Do I detect your sister’s touch?’

Hew acknowledged it. For there was lavender among the rushes on the floor, and petals on the sheets, that scented fresh and sweetly; and the water in the bowl that bubbled by the fire was seasoned with dried flowers and fragrant herbs. Two candles were lit in their cups on the wall, not tallow but beeswax, dimpled and new, and on the fresh-laid sheets his mother’s crimson counterpane turned back upon their crispness made him want to weep, so achingly familiar in the candlelight. His books were there, brought from his boyhood, his laver, his inkstand, and pens.

If the lawyer had observed how all this had affected him, he chose not to remark it, rinsing his mouth in the warm scented water, wiping his beard on the cloth.

‘Your father,’ he reflected, ‘might have served the Crown, if he had stayed. No doubt your mother’s death affected him. And yet we never understood why he retired.’

‘My sister was unwell,’ Hew answered woodenly. ‘We came here for her health.’

‘So I have heard.’ The lawyer let the question drop unasked. He sat upon the counterpane, tugging at his shoes. Presently he ventured, ‘You’ll permit I call you Hew? I knew you as a child.’

Hew nodded warily.

‘I wish to ask you something. Now, perhaps, is not the time, but tomorrow … well, we shall be occupied, and it is the nature of my business, that I may not linger long. Tis only recently that I renewed my old acquaintance with your father, since my boy was come here to the university. And I was sad to find him in decline. Nonetheless, I was fortunate enough to spend a little time with him before he died, and as fathers will, we discussed our sons.’

Hew had stiffened. If the lawyer noticed this, he chose to pass it by.

‘And we were both proud fathers, I am not ashamed to say. It will embarrass you, no doubt, as it would do my own boy, to hear how we indulged ourselves. Yet you will permit my saying, for tis meant as a kindness, that your father was most touching in his pride for you. He hoped that you might follow in the law.’

‘I know it,’ Hew said heavily, ‘and I have tried the law. That much my father knew. I am not disposed to like it.’ He stirred in his chair, setting down his cup.

‘I understand. Perhaps I ought not to presume to put my case. No matter, though. The fact is this: If you were to consider the law as your profession, then nothing would please me more than to take you for my pupil and to oversee your coming to the bar. You are, I understand, full learned in the civil laws, and ripe for your probation. None would be more welcome in my house.’

Hew was silent a moment. His eyes were low, upon the fire. Quietly, he said, ‘You are too kind.’

‘Do not speak of kindness. I may not pretend that I am half the man your father was. Yet if I could impart to you, the half I learned from him, I might serve you well. In modesty, I hesitate to mention this, but my regard has influence. The position of king’s advocate is not beyond my reach.’

Cunningham’s tone was earnest, unaffected, and Hew softened his response. ‘I know your reputation, sir. The honour you impart is undeserved. I would not, for the world, have done you a discourtesy. But I must protest again, I am not suited to the law.’

The lawyer nodded. ‘Your father thought otherwise. But there again, we may be blind to our children’s predilections. All too often, it would seem, we cast them in our moulds. Now there’s my own boy begged to be a cabin boy,’ (despite himself, Hew smiled), ‘and here I’ve gone and put him to the university.’

‘Ah, but then you knew he would not care to be a cabin boy,’ Hew objected shrewdly.

‘Did I though? But how? No matter, now. I am resolved, I shall not try to sway you, nor take offence if you decline. Do not make your answer yet awhile. Only, may I ask you, why you are so set against the law? You have spent many years in study. Was it all for nought?’

‘I cannot readily explain it, sir, without I prick old wounds. I once had a friend indicted for a crime, a heinous crime, that he did not commit. I knew my friend was innocent, and I had proofs, and knew the law, and yet I could not prove it by the law, wherefore I do hold it in contempt.’

The lawyer was listening intently. Urgently he asked, ‘Your friend was hanged?’

Hew shook his head. ‘I set the whole before the king, who pardoned him.’

The lawyer smiled. ‘Which tells me you have wit, and may well serve the law, when you well understand it. I wish I had had your insight, when I was your age. Yet we are alike. For something of the sort befell me too, some twenty years ago. I was a probationer, working with your father, in the tolbooth of St Giles. I was an arrogant lad, subtle, I confess, and I had learned the law and all its tricks. I could not wait to play them for myself. I saw the law as sport, and took delight in it, like racquets in the caichpule, batting back and forth. Your father had his chamber in the close among the notaries; I work there still, though in those days I shared lodgings in the low shade of the kirk, and now my house looks down upon it from the hill. But then, the world ahead of me, I was proud and eager, and ambitious for success. The first case I defended on completing my probation was almost, I might say, a friend. He was one of the writers who worked in our row, who prepared our papers and made notes for us. And he was privy in this role to rare and secret documents. We knew him as a meek and modest man, whose life consisted solely in the functions of his office, and a sober, fond devotion to his wife and child. Well, there was at this time a great lord taken for a spy, imprisoned in the castle at Blackness and due to stand his trial. You will permit I cloud the details; they are secret even now. But on the day before the trial, documents were brought before his gaolers that sanctioned his release, a pardon in what seemed our queen’s own hand, that bore her signet seal. He was released unto his friends and thence to England, where he pursued his plot against our Crown. The pardon was a forgery, the gaolers tricked; and the signet seal was traced to an old letter in our writer’s rooms. He had trimmed it with a knife and stuck the seal afresh to calculate his forgery, and it was neatly done.’

‘But he was guilty, then?’ concluded Hew. ‘Why did he do it?’

‘I can only guess for profit. He would not confess. And to the last, he did protest his innocence, which made it all the worse. He begged us to defend him. This modest little man, who spelled our writs so patiently, with whom we shared our drinking on a quiet afternoon, came begging to our chambers, pleading for his life.’

‘But was my father there? What was his part in this?’ Hew pursued uneasily.

‘He was otherwise engaged, and could not take the case. And so it came to me, the wretched man so grateful it was touching to behold. He fell upon his knees and kissed my hand. And standing up alone there for the first time in that court without your father’s counsel … I confess that I failed him. I did not argue well, I could not make a case; in short, the man was hanged.’

Hew shook his head. ‘Consider he were guilty, then it was not your fault. And if the man was innocent, then that must prove my point about the law.’

‘I did not consider it. I knew that I had failed him. For I had been afeared and flustered in that court. I was afraid, in truth, I should be tainted with his crime, who must defend the man, and not the fault. The charge was treason, after all. And yet there were no proofs, for he did not confess, no witnesses came forth, another could have found that seal, and stole it from his room. I should have made his case, and I could not. Then afterwards … Afterwards I went to your father and I told him what had happened. He spoke to me with such understanding, with such kindness, that I swear it made it worse. But that was not the worst, for he insisted we attend the execution.’

‘My father did!’ exclaimed Hew. ‘That was not like him!’

Richard regarded him gravely for a moment. ‘I believe it was,’ he contradicted quietly. ‘For Matthew said, if we would know the law, then we must know the whole of it; and see the consequence of what it was we did. And while your father was most gentle, yet he was severe, and I was half afraid of him. He took me to the mercat cross and made me watch that poor man die, nor suffered me to look away until the last. I wish I might tell you, he died cleanly and bravely. But it was not so.’

Shaken, Hew murmured, ‘And yet you went on in the law?’

‘At first, I was resolved to leave it there and then. Your father did convince me I might turn my rage to good. And I did, though I fear not in the way he intended. Matthew thought an advocate might also have a conscience. In personal life, I would agree. But in the court, it’s different. The lesson I learned there, was not to fail.’

‘You do not persuade me to pursue you in the law,’ Hew said bluntly.

The advocate smiled. ‘It is the devil’s tale, I do confess. I know not why I told it. You are the first to hear it these past twenty years. The lateness of the hour, your father’s death, have moved me to break confidence. Let us blow out the light.’

He lay in his shirt beside Hew on the bed, and drew the thick curtains to close out the draught. The small fire beyond burned down in the darkness. The water in the basin had begun to ice and crack.

Human Remains

Matthew Cullan was buried in the kirkyard of St Leonard’s on the last day of the old year 1580, on the 24th 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 …’