Friend & Foe (6 page)

‘I’m quite sure,’ Hew insisted, ‘that it will not come to that, if there is any justice in the world.’

‘If you believed in justice, you would practise law, and not profess to peddle at the university. You ken as well as I do, justice is a sham, and there is nought of consequence rewarded in this life. Rich men prosper, brave men hang.’ Bartie blew his nose. ‘You should be careful, Hew.’

‘Should I? Of what?’

‘This business of the hawthorn tree. I see it draw you in.’

‘As I confess, it does,’ Hew smiled, ‘and I am not afraid of it.’

‘You never did attend to a better man’s advice. But I would urge you heartily, to seek no further answer here, but leave it well alone.’ The pigeons had returned, to peck at Bartie’s feet. ‘So young and plump and sweet. And what would I not give, for two squabs in a pie. Yet we may be the pigeons here.’ Bartie ended, briskly, ‘Well now, dinner time!’

‘You must hold your promise not to tell a soul.’

The mathematician groaned, ‘Ah, but that is cruel! You have snuffed the heartbeat from an old man’s life, stealing from his pleasure that one precious chink of light. Not speak of it! Not dine on it! You demand too much.’

‘But for one day,’ Hew insisted. ‘I pray you will not speak of it, least of all to Giles. I would have him test the samples I have taken without prejudice, for which it is essential that he has not been forewarned. A dinner in it, Bartie, if you keep your word.’

‘I shall hold you to the dinner,’ Bartie snuffled off. ‘But you should be aware you break an old man’s heart.’

Hew found Andrew Melville standing by the hawthorn tree.

‘I have sent Dod Auchinleck up to his chamber,’ the principal confided. ‘He was a little distressed. He is not a bad man, as I think, though at times he is a weak one. He wants a little shaping, that is all. With a little shaping, he may turn out for the good.’

Melville glanced up at the tower-loft. ‘The dows have returned. I wonder if that means we are no longer under threat. You found something, I think, lying on the ground. May I ask you what it was?’

He was sharp, Hew noticed, fishing out the stone. ‘This is what I found. Tell me what you see.’

The centre of the stone had been worn through to a hollow, weathered to a hole

Andrew Melville frowned, ‘A seeing stone. Then this maun explain it.’

‘What does it explain?’

‘It confirms our fears. The stone is a charm. I have seen one before. It was tied upon a riband, round an infant’s neck, to keep it from the faerie folk till it received the sacrament. The silly midwife was found out, and sorely did repent of it.’

Hew pointed out, ‘There are no midwives here. Then what do you conclude?’

‘That the stone is emblematic of a kind of witchcraft, and is certain proof that there is magic here,’ Melville answered sadly. He did not show signs of faltering, prepared to face the devil if and when he must. His sorrow was to find that the devil came so close to him, and had taken root among people he had trusted.

Hew held up the pebble, squinting through the hole in it, to see the clear blue sky. ‘It is a seeing stone.’ For a moment, without thinking, he had thought of Nicholas. He swept the thought aside. ‘And shall I tell you what I see? I see an endless sky, of depth and possibility; the whole world closed and captured in a winking eye. A small stone with a hole in it, sucked out by the sea, like a succar candie, on a small boy’s tongue. What do I conclude from that? That this little stone did not come here by chance, but someone must have brought it here. Of faeries, witches, devils, charms, I read nothing in a hollow, worn out by the sea. This stone is out of place. And that is all I see. I will take the samples I have taken to Giles Locke. He will show us with his science what secrets are contained in it, and, if he cannot, we shall look again. For we must keep inquiring, with a searching mind. So ready we may be to keek through narrow stones, and see a world of darkness and of terrors ranged against us, when what we are looking at is mirrored from our selves. We cry censure at the midwife who pins charms upon the babby. I pray we do not fall into that same class of mistake.’

Andrew’s view was clear, ‘For certain, we shall not. For God is on our side. Yet I am content to leave this in your hands. Our visitors have left, and the others have retreated, to the dinner board. We should follow, I suppose. Yet I find I have no appetite for dining in the hall. May I ask instead that you come back to my house? I can offer bannocks and a decent bit of cheese.’

Hew had forgotten, for the while, that Melville had a purpose in requesting him to stay. In the safety of his house, the principal returned to it. ‘First, though, we maun eat, for we are not so sparing here that we are not aware that all strong hearts need sustenance.’ Andrew looked around him, somewhat at a loss. There was an air of helplessness about his hospitality. ‘Somewhere, there is wine. Make yourself at home, and I will see what I can find.’

Hew was left alone, in a pleasant first floor room that overlooked the square. From the window of the chamber he could see the
tower, and under it the hawthorn blossoms, darkly tinged with blood. The room inside was plain and clean, its rows of neatness overruled by straggling piles of books, which spilled out from the bookshelves onto wooden boards. There were several low-backed chairs, a lettrin and a pair of stools, in a circle round the hearth. The fireplace was unlit, swept clean of any ash, and though it looked south, the room remained cool, and harboured a faint smell of damp. On the desk were writing things, and a pile of books. As Andrew closed the door behind him a single sheet of paper blew down to the floor. Hew bent to pick it up, and saw that it was written in the Hebrew script. He took it to the light, to while away the time in waiting, trying to decipher it. It did not take him long to identify the text as one of the most difficult and troubling of the psalms. He supposed it was intended as the substance of a sermon, in which case, it was not one he would like to hear.

‘How apposite that ye should light on that.’

Melville had returned, with a banquet on a tray, cobbled from the remnants he had gathered from the hall. He swept a pile of books from the board on the flour, and set out bread and collops and a lump of yellow cheese, pewter plates and cups, and white wine in a jug.

‘The malmsey is quite good, though we are not one of those colleges that squanders funds on wine’ – he alluded to St Leonard’s – ‘I had a flagon brought, to drink to James’ health.’ He poured a cup for Hew, and took a sip himself. ‘I rarely take strong drink, but sometimes, it is called for.’

Hew took up the cup and set the paper down. In retrospect, he could not tell which proved the sourer draught.

‘Forgive me, I should not have looked. The wind had blown it to the floor.’

Melville insisted, ‘I have no secrets here. Yet it is of interest that you chance on that, for it has seemed to me a salutary exercise. It is not, you may see, the original, but the psalm in Greek, rendered into Hebrew. There are some small mistakes in it; that said, it
is a fair attempt, and one which any student might be pleased to own. You read Hebrew, do you not? You have been reading it with James.’

‘A little,’ Hew confessed. He had the faint sense, still, that he was found at fault, having been discovered with the paper in his hand.

‘Then read it to me now. Read those parts in Hebrew that are underscored, and turn them into Scots.

‘Had I expected an examination,’ Hew protested mildly, ‘then I should have come prepared.’

‘Your patience, sir. Allow me this.’

‘Ah, very well.’ Hew sighed. The imposition, he supposed, he had brought upon himself.

‘It is a copy of the 109th psalm of David. I have sometimes thought,’ he ventured, ‘that the tone of that psalm, so bitter, harsh and vengeful, does not chime so sweet with what we ken of Christ. It is a hard thing to stomach, choked with so much bile.’

‘I did not ask you,’ Andrew said, ‘what you have
sometimes thought
, but to translate the words before you on the page.’ He seemed to have forgotten that they were not in a class, but this brusqueness was unlike him, even so. Hew played the part assigned to him, and did as he was told.

‘It is a prayer against the wicked, where the psalmist prays for vengeance against those who have accused him, whereupon he curses them, with many bitter words.’

Andrew urged him, ‘Aye? And how do you translate them?’

Hew glanced at the verse. ‘In as much as I recall . . .’

‘You must not recall,’ the pedagogue said sharply, as though he were the schoolmaster, and Hew the errant child. ‘Translate for me, in plainer words, the places underlined.’

‘Set thou the wicked over him . . . and let the . . . the opponent . . . stand at his right hand,’ Hew continued carefully.

Melville nodded. ‘Aye. That, now,
that
is good. You do not follow the Greek, and translate
ha-satan
as
Diabolos
, or Satan. He is the adversary; here the prosecutor, in the court of judgement. His
reference is the law, as you understand. But then you are a lawyer, so tis likely you would see that. Go to, now, go on.’

‘Where he shall be judged, let him be condemned, and let his prayers be turned into sin.’ Here, Hew paused and frowned. Melville had no quarrel with a vengeful God, for he prompted earnestly, ‘Aye, go on, go on!’

‘. . . let his days be few, and another take his charge . . . let there be none to extend mercie unto him, neither let there be any to show mercie unto his fatherless children. Let his posterity be destroyed, and in the generation following let their name be put out.’

Hew set the paper down. ‘I find it hard to come to terms with the singer’s want of charity. And I will confess to you, tis not my favourite psalm. What purpose has it here?’

‘I have no idea. Did I not explain to you? I found it on a placard, posted at my door.’

Chapter 6

A Box of Tricks

Melville read no threat in the paper at his door, and he made no connection with the bleeding tree.

‘They are not the same at all. For the one may be considered an attempt to unsettle, and to undermine our faith, by the devil’s magic, or some other wickedness. The other is to strengthen and make solid our resolve, through the pure voice of the liturgy, by which we all affirm the feeling of our hearts. I took it as a sign.’

He helped Hew to a collop of some cold grey meat, whose colour had leached out into the cooking pot. The flesh was limp and soft, and with a little flavour might have been digestible. It turned out to have none. Hew explored it glumly. ‘As a sign of what?’

‘That I should be more temperate and thoughtful in my actions, none so quick to judge. Yet where the cause is just – for you maun be aware, Hew, the psalmist’s cause was just – I should not fear to act. We should strike down our enemies.’

Hew was not convinced, on either count. ‘You say that this paper was pinned on your door, when you came back from the General Assembly? And that no one in the college owns to having left it there?’

‘Just so. And the timing of the missive had a singular effect. Now, do not mistake me,’ Andrew hurried to assure him, ‘I do not suppose this comes to me straight from the hand of God; rather, I am persuaded it was written by one of my own students. Dod Auchinleck is one such comes to mind.’

Dod Auchinleck, again. And it occurred to Hew that Dod had made his presence felt both in the lecture and outside it. Perhaps he
had more cunning than had first appeared. ‘Have you not asked him, then?’

The principal confessed, ‘I have not liked to put the question more directly, since he did not admit it when I raised it in the school. He is a modest soul. Whoever it may be, has cause to feel well pleased with it, for it was neatly done.’

Hew accepted, ‘Aye, perhaps.’ He felt uneasy still, for if the psalm contained a message that was backed up by the hawthorn tree, it did not augur well.

‘Whoever left it,’ Andrew argued, ‘for whatever purpose, has strengthened my resolve in asking for your help. I would see justice done.’

‘Aye? In what respect?’

‘Concerning Patrick Adamson.’

‘The archbishop, do you mean?’ Patrick Adamson was archbishop of St Andrews and chancellor of the university. He went by several names, Constance and Constantine among them. It was said he was son to a baxter, a trade of which Hew had had more than his fill.

Melville jabbed his table knife into a piece of bread, spearing it with cheese. ‘The
tulchan
,’ he corrected. ‘For as ye are aware, the bishops have no business in a true reformit kirk.’

Tulchan
was the Gaelic word used by the reformers for the straw-calf bishops, set before the milk-kine of the starveling church. The drip drip drip of milk was creamed off by the lords, while the bishops battened on the splashings from the pail. In Andrew Melville’s kirk, a bishop had no merit more than any other man. Time was when Patrick Adamson had sworn and preached the same, before the Regent Morton offered him the diocese. Then he had changed his tune.

‘As you know,’ Andrew went on, ‘I have been at the Assembly. The rumour from the town has left me sorely vexed, for it is said the king will not submit to Gowrie’s governance, nor rest content, for long.’

‘I have heard that,’ Hew agreed. He thought back to the last time he had seen the king, a fraught and frightened boy.
They want to take
my power from me
. The boy had not been wrong. He had fallen captive to the earl of Gowrie, whose thrift and prudent government chimed well with Melville’s own. His favourites were dismissed, routed from the court, Arran under house arrest and Lennox fled to France. The king had sworn he was not forced or kept against his will, a hollow proclamation no one had believed.

‘His old friends are regrouped,’ Melville now confirmed. ‘Lennox is expected, any day, from France. This regiment will fall. Therefore the kirk is minded to act against the bishops, before they can appeal again to the king’s protection. The archbishop of Glasgow has already been indicted, and called before his brethren. Now the light of scrutiny has turned to Patrick Adamson. He was called to answer to a charge of lechery, of insult to the kirk, and abandoning his flock. He wrote a letter to me, saying he was caught up in his castle, suffering from a sickness that he called a fedity, and could not compear. And so at that Assembly I stood up and spoke for him; and his inquisition was put off until another time. Yet even as I pleaded for him, I felt sair ashamed that he should so disgrace us, our kirk and university. I loved him as a brother once, and knew him as a scholar and a righteous man.’

‘You took it for falset?’ interpreted Hew.

‘Had I taken it for falset, sir, then I should not have sworn to it,’ Melville countered sharply. ‘The truth is I do not know, and that were bad enough. He has kept here to his castle, and does not go abroad, but the reasons may be politick. The word is, he has sent away his surgeons and physicians, and swears he will have none of them, but seeks to cure his malady through dishonest means. Therefore, have I resolved to ask Professor Locke, to sound this sickness out.’

‘That,’ said Hew, ‘makes perfect sense.’

‘So I hope, sir,’ Andrew nodded, ‘Giles Locke is a fine physician. And his opinion, were it given, might be worthy of respect. But I ken full well that he is no defender of our cause. He maks his feelings felt, rather by abstention than by opposition. I do not fault him for it, for he is a civil and an honest man. But I think it likely that he will
decline the charge. I hoped you might persuade him to it, and come too, as witness, to see justice done.’

Hew was roused by this. ‘Giles is my friend and brother,’ he defended, ‘I trust him with my life. And you may be assured that he will tell you . . .’
straight
, he was about to say, but Giles’ diagnoses were the convoluted kind, ‘he will tell the truth. His judgement as physician is not clouded by his faith, or what you think his lack of it. If you cannot trust Giles Locke, then you were ill-advised to take me as your arbiter.’

Andrew Melville sighed. ‘I did not mean that, Hew. I do not doubt Giles Locke. But I would have you there to see justice done for Patrick, so that he cannot say that he has been ill used. You should know, perhaps, that in my ain poor heart I pray that he is sick, for then I had not lied for him. I pray to God for help that I may judge him fairly, to give me strength and will to seek out the truth, and that I cannot do without you at my side.’

Hew considered. ‘Yet, if Giles consents to it, might Patrick not refuse?’

‘It will not please him,’ Andrew owned, ‘but he will agree. For, if he does not, he will be excommunicat; the kirk will read refusal as his clear confession that he is a lecher, a defaulter and a fraud. It is a cold and lonely place for any man to lie in, left out from his brethren. And, as I ken Patrick, he will not want that. I bid you, put the matter plainly to your good friend Doctor Locke, persuade him he must come, nor give him cause to argue that I do not trust him.’

‘Giles is a rational man,’ Hew promised with a smile. ‘And he will not think that, if it is not true.’

‘He does not trust me,’ Giles concluded. ‘For that reason he sends you.’

‘It is rather,’ Hew assured him, ‘that he does not trust himself.’

‘And were it any other person,’ Giles dismissed this out of hand, ‘I might allow a modicum, of simple, honest doubt. But that man is a monolith. His ignorance is cast in stone.’

They were in the turret tower, Doctor Locke’s consulting room at St Salvator’s college, where Hew had brought the news. He had passed on Melville’s message, which had not been well received.

‘He asks only,’ Hew persisted, ‘that you make a true report of what you see and find. And he has assured me he will take your word on it. He wants justice for the kirk, without prejudice to Patrick. You cannot fault him, surely, for a careful mind?’

‘Rather I should marvel at it,’ Giles said with a snort. ‘Aye, then, very well. I agree to make the visit, so long as you come too, to explain things to your friend – for he and I, assuredly, will find no common ground – and so long as Adamson is willing to consent to it. Which I do not think is likely; he has not consulted me. What sort of sickness is it?’

‘Melville says a
fedity. Foeditas
is foulness, in the Latin,’ Hew reflected. ‘Corruption of the body, or else of his spirit. Melville knows not which.’

‘The two are not so disparate, as some men would believe. ‘A
fedity
,’ repeated Giles, cheering up immensely. ‘Then I shall look forward to it. We shall go tomorrow, first thing after breakfast.’

Giles was a practitioner of peculiar tastes. The turret tower was filled with rows of curiosities, which lined each nook and cranny of its arching shelves; unguents, oils and pickling spices, astrolabes and clocks. In the recess by the window, to make best use of the light, Giles kept his dissecting table, an old flesher’s block. Hew approached it cautiously, since he was never certain quite what he would find: a poppy head or pomegranate, spilling out its seeds, or the matrix of a rabbit, with its kittens still intact. Once, Giles had a human foot, peeled back to the bone, and once the pipes and ventricles that mapped the human heart.

This time, Hew found nothing but a box of leaves, which Giles had covered over with a sheet of glass. ‘What kind of plant is that?’

‘Camomile,’ said Giles. ‘But that is not the point. The leaf is but a mask, the method of disguise. What do you see below?’

‘Some sort of bulb or grub?’ Coming from the box, Hew heard a rattling sound. ‘A gerslouper?’ he guessed.

‘It is a pupa, of some sort. I wait for it to hatch.’

‘What will it hatch into?’

‘I have no idea. That is the experiment.’ The doctor beamed at him. Hew knew no one better who could answer to his needs. He reached into his pocket for the bloody handkerchief and scraped the crusted contents out on to the slab. ‘Tell me, what is that?’

It was typical of Giles that he did not reply at once, that it was plain to any onlooker it was a clot of blood. Giles was not a ly-by, and would offer no opinion without careful probing. Now he poked and prodded, sampled, stroked and sniffed, and looked closely at the specimen through a piece of glass. He dropped a part of it into a flask of water, warmed upon the fire, and stirred till it dissolved, to turn the liquid pink. With pincers he detached a small fragment of skin, washed clean of its sediment, and placed it on the block. Eventually he asked, ‘Is this some sort of trick? For clearly it is blood.’

Hew acknowledged, ‘I think it very likely it may be a trick. But my intent and hope was not to trick with you, but to ask you to consider, with a searching mind, whether it could be the life sap of a tree, or any substance other than it seems to be.’

‘Assuredly,’ said Giles, ‘It is what it appears. It looks and feels and smells, congeals and dissolves, as though it were blood. And were I ever pressed, and forced to stake my life on it, then I might be prepared to swear that it was blood.’

‘Aye, then, very good,’ Hew grinned. ‘What sort of blood?’

‘The sort,’ said Giles, ‘that comes from cutting flesh, from fowl or fish or animal, not from any plant.’

‘Not human,’ Hew assumed.

‘Did I say that?’ Giles retorted. ‘Tis like you, to go leaping at conclusions, when the proper path has not been circumscribed. When was man not animal?’

‘
All flesh is not the same flesh, but there is one flesh of man, and another flesh of beasts
,’ Hew pointed out.

Giles responded, ‘Pah! You have spent too long in the company of kirkmen.’

‘Then it
is
human blood?’

‘Did I say so, Hew?’ The doctor fixed his colleague with a baleful stare. There were moments, after all, when his thoroughness exasperated and Hew felt more inclined to cut through to the chase. ‘Is there a way to tell?’

Giles would not be rushed. ‘When we were in Paris, at the Rue des Fosses, there was a phlebotomer – a man called de la Peine – who could tell a man his nation from the colour of his blood, as our vintars can distinguish French and Rhenish wines. His patients would sit quietly till he had drawn a draucht of it, then he would sniff and say, Hispanyee, or Almanie, Flemish, Scots, or Dutch. He made a fortune from it.’

‘That might be of some interest, if you kent how twas done.’

‘That part I am coming to. He did it by the hats,’ said Giles.

‘The hats?’ repeated Hew.

‘He was a man of fashion; so too were his customers. The height and shape of hat differs from place to place. The differences were subtle, but his instincts were refined. They failed him only once.’

‘Then all that you are saying,’ Hew summed with a sigh, ‘is that you cannot tell.’

‘That may well depend, on what you want to ken. My father was a man with an uncommon love of sausages, and he could tell you at a glance what offal they consisted of, but I have not that faculty. From the depth of colour, I would hazard it were ox blood, though there is too little of it to confirm its source. There is no telling what or where it may come from, but for this piece of skin.’ Giles had placed the membrane underneath his glass. Washed clean of its blood, it had a bluish tinge. ‘From the coarseness and the strength, I should say that this was
vesica
. What plain men call a bladder.’

‘
Vesica
.’ Hew broke into a smile. The world made perfect sense to him. For he saw in a moment how the trick was done. ‘Giles, you are ingenious!’

Giles, though slightly baffled, took this as his due. ‘I think that I may have a piece with which to make compare. Which serves now to remind me, I have something new to show you.’

He lifted down a key from its wooden hook, and unlocked the door that led in to his closet. Here he kept his notebooks, papers and anatomies, and one or two rare artefacts, too strange to be exposed. And here it was that Meg had come, to nurse and care for Nicholas, through that first grave sickness that had brought him down, falling for the doctor who had saved his life. That was four years past, and Nicholas, though frail and wan, was safe and living still.