Hue and Cry (40 page)

‘There are seven persons in the play. The first is a college principal, called Claudus. The second is Mercator, a rich merchant. The third is Adolescens, the merchant’s youngest son. The fourth is Tutor, regent in the college. Fifth is Textor, weaver, and the brother of the merchant. Sixth, his wife, is Textrix; and seventh, last, is Tinctor, a dyer most corrupt. I myself shall play the part of Claudus.’

‘
Claudus
?’ asked the boy, ‘why, is he lame?’

‘Aye, very lame,’ his master smiled. ‘Which is to say, he is defective in his morals, and he wavers where his loyalties lie. In truth, you make a point, we’ll have him limp, now in this leg, now in that, according to his bent. This Claudus has wines and silks from Mercator, at some expense. He has exquisite tastes. And how does Claudus fund these tastes? He saps the college bursaries, and sells the bursars’ places on to rich men’s sons, wherefore he profits double for his sins. Now, Mercator, a widower, has such a son, Adolescens, the greenest of youths. Says Mercator to Claudus, “I will give you the finest wines for your cellars and salt for your flesh if you will take into your college my youngest son, unschooled though he is.” And Claudus knows the boy has not the wit, yet he promises a master who will school him that he might matriculate as Mercator desires. And they drink to it then, deep of the merchant’s red wine, paid for with the bursars’ inks, and Claudus congratulates himself that he has done the deal. And does he feel a prick of conscience? If he does, he soon assuages it, for he appoints his poorest regent as master to the boy – we have called him Tutor – his protector. Tutor needs the money, and was himself a bursar. His appointment, reasons Claudus, will redress the balance sheet. So all is well.

‘But for the boy, Adolescens, all is not well. He has little grasp of grammar, and he cannot match his father’s expectations. His father, in his turn, is blind to this. He has lodged him in the house of his own brother, the weaver Textor, and his wife. The weaver
is a bully. He mistreats his wife, and has refused her proper converse now for many years. To his brother, he’s a sponging sycophant, but to his nephew he is hectoring and cruel. Mercator comes often, but ignores the boy’s distress. He has eyes only for Textrix, whom he has loved most fervently and ardently against the laws of nature and of God. The boy’s place in her home allows them to proceed with the affair. It is not, however, without danger, for all the time they are watched by the weaver’s friend Tinctor, the dyer, spying and waiting, biding his time.

‘As for Adolescens, in his loneliness he finds an unexpected friend in Tutor, who must school him in the path he finds so hard, who nurtures and guides him so patiently, and allows a little gentleness when the burden seems too grave. And in this boy there grows a dark despairing fondness for the master who protects him. He tries to please him, and is left desolate by countless casual kindnesses, dropped careless of the depth of their effect. Then one night, when his uncle the weaver has been particularly cruel to him, he slips out of the house and visits Tutor, asking him to walk with him and give him counsel. Which that good man, seeing his charge in such distress, agrees to do, and they walk by the shore in the moonlight where the callow boy at last gives way to all the stirrings of his heart and tells the master of his love for him. What do you think the tutor does then?’

‘I know not, sir.’ Thomas was frowning. ‘What should he do?’

‘Aye, what? Does he strike the boy from him, with bleak and harsh words, for filthiness, corruption, for
presumption
? Does he shudder and recoil?’

‘He might,’ the boy suggested timidly.

‘And though he might, he does not do these things. For he is kind, and he can see into the real hurt in his pupil’s heart, and so he tells him gently he is overwrought. He seeks to save him from himself. And seeing the boy standing so desolate there, so fragile on the brink of his despair, he comforts him with a single kiss, and sends him home with promises. He shall not fret. The thing shall be resolved.’

Thomas was silent. Hew went on. ‘Think, if you will, what storms were in his heart as he went home. On coming there, he could not go into the house without the notice of the weaver and his wife, and so he went into the shop and crept beneath the counter where at last he fell asleep.

‘We may suppose he slept for many hours, his heart wrung to exhaustion, for when he last awoke he heard the sound of voices. I say it poignantly, for that was the
last
time he awoke.’

Thomas remarked to himself that the play was now in the past tense, and become a history. He listened, saying nothing.

‘Doubtless he drew himself close into his hiding place. His uncle Textor had gone to the market and was not expected in the shop. And it was Sunday. Who was there? We cannot know how much Adolescens saw or understood of what happened in the shop that day, but we do know what was happening there. His aunt Textrix was there with the dyer, the man we call Tinctor.’

‘She was a whore, then?’ ventured the lad.

Hew shook his head. ‘The dyer had been spying and he came to blackmail her; helplessly, he took her there, the boy beneath the counter all the while. We may suppose that what he did not see he must have heard. He may not have understood. Certainly he heard the sounds of violence and distress. And the last sound that he heard was the slamming of the door into the house, his aunt’s sobbing footsteps retreating to silence. Then perhaps did he creep out to find the dyer standing in his hose inflamed still in his anger and his lust. Or perhaps he made a sound, a muffled cry, and was discovered there beneath the counter, cowering in the dust among the threads, and dragged forth by the dyer in his heat to meet his fate. Did he cry and make him promises, begging for his life? God knows. In all events, the dyer murdered him; and with a shuttle of a loom he split his skull and spilt his brains. He wrapped the corpse in cloth and shut it in a closet. And then, cool as you will, he walked home through the town to his wife, where the blood on his hands and his clothes attracted scarce attention from the crowd, for he was Tinctor after all. He wore his stains.’

The boy’s eyes opened wide, ‘And so he got away with it?’

‘Not quite. For Textrix tells the merchant,’ they had come back to the play, ‘as he weeps for his dead son, about the blackmail and the rape, and he exacts particular revenge. He drowns Tinctor bodily in his own vat, dyeing him deep as the stain on his soul. It’s poetic, don’t you think?’

The boy said timidly. ‘I think that the principal, sir, may mislike your play.’

Hew smiled, ‘I grant he may mislike it, though he cannot fault
your
part in it.’

‘I cannot . . . I cannot play my part so
forward
as that boy. For I have not been born to it.’

‘If you do not play it forwardly, then you will play it well. I bid you catch his innocence. But do you think you can?’

‘I think so. It is a striking tale. But, sir . . .’ the boy demurred.

‘You are unhappy still?’

‘No. But is it not a moral tale? I do not see the moral yet. Where does it come?’

‘Therein lies the conscience of the play. And I confess, I scarcely know.’

He had not lied to Thomas. It was Gilchrist who suggested it, over claret wine. ‘It was Colp’s play, after all, and since you take his place, then you must write his play. It’s your men that perform it.’ Hew had protested he was not a playwright. Gilchrist overruled. ‘Of course you must.’

There should be a part for the bursars, certainly. The bursars should be seen. The suggestion of a part for the youngest bursar, Thomas Burns, delighted him. He spoke his verses grandly though he was a pauper. Moreover, he was closest to the king in age.

‘You must write a part for Duncan Stewart,’ he cautioned, ‘for his father will expect it.’

‘He will not learn his lines,’ Hew pointed out.

‘One of your bursars will help him. A simple part, not much to say, but prominent, you know. He must be seen.’

‘I think I have the part for him.’

‘Good man, of course you do.’

From the magistrands, Hew selected five to act before the king. He hid from them the role of Claudus, and rehearsed it privately. The bursars played the Strachans: Mercator and Textor. A slender youth, clear-skinned, was persuaded to play Textrix. For Tutor, he made perfect verse and cast him carefully. He chose a gentle, inward boy. He handed him the script and asked him to consider it. And he had chosen well. The boy had asked him piercingly, ‘Do you make this play for Nicholas Colp?’

Hew answered, that he did.

‘Then I should like to play this part. The kiss and all.’

‘You are determined. Why?’ the master asked.

‘I like him, sir.’

Was this the boy his friend had loved? Hew could not tell. He looked into his face, upon this simple answer, and read nothing there but sympathy. He spoke his name to Nicholas, who did not blush to hear it said but answered as he always did, ‘I know him, he’s a constant lad. When first he came, he floundered, yet I think he will do well.’

Only Duncan Stewart, as predicted, found his part a strain. Though he had few lines he laboured hard to learn them. A bursar was assigned to teach him. Presently, the bursar came to Hew and warned him anxiously, ‘I do not think he understands the part he is to play, sir.’

‘Have you not explained it?’

‘I have tried. He does not wish to hear it. Mostly, he snarls at me, “Read out the part,” I read the words, and he repeats. He does not understand them. It is the stage direction, sir.’

‘Well then, you have tried,’ Hew told him kindly. ‘You may not be blamed.’

‘I fear it, though.’ The bursar looked unhappy still.

‘If it helps, I’ll ask him if he knows his part and if he understands it. Better then, the
principal
shall ask him. If he won’t confess he doesn’t, then you can’t be blamed.’

‘I should be grateful for it.’

‘Then it will be done. I take it you have learned
your
part?’

‘I have.’ He hesitated, ‘Sir, it is the part of Mercator, the merchant.’

The master smiled indulgently. ‘Of course, you are the bowman, chosen for your strength. Then I think you will enjoy it all the more.’

The New Inns of the Abbey, built for Magdalena, wife of James V, overlooked the lawns where Hew proposed to stage his play. Queen Madeleine did not survive the marriage, and it was James’ second queen, Mary of Guise, who came at last into her palace in the priory grounds where their wedding vows were blessed in the cathedral. Now the house was opened up and made fair to welcome her grandson. And in the early days of spring in the year 1580, the town prepared to meet its king. Breads were baked, hunts were called; milk lambs were slaughtered, torn from the teat. Stairs were scrubbed and linens laundered; closes were swept and strewn with flowers. All the heavy furniture and trappings of the court came trundling from the harbour, boat by boat, straining through the sea port to the abbey gate. Behind the high walls of the priory, laundry maids beat out the dust and cobwebs in the sun. Their draperies and damasks flagged the worn cathedral stones, where once another king had brought his bride, where bishops, monks and friars once had sung for her. Some recalled the wedding they had witnessed here as children, forty days of feasting, while their church stood proud and tall. And clean and curious at last they lined the hopeful streets to see their king.

Hew did not go among the crowds, but waited with his students in the garden. Beyond the wall, the closes, streets and lanes were choked with people, craning from the window ledges, galleries and stairs. They heard the slow procession turn the corner into the south street, caught in the percussion of the crowd. He sensed the students fidgeting, glancing at the gate, and smiled at them indulgently. ‘Aye, then, go and look.’

In a moment they forgot that they were players and were boys
again, clambering and fighting for a place upon the wall, mouths agape as all the daftest louns.

‘There’s the provost.’

‘And the minister.’

‘Mind, I cannot see!’

‘And you jostle like you do, then none of you will see,’ Hew observed judiciously. ‘Lift Thomas on your shoulders there, and sit him on the wall. No, don’t protest, you’ll have your turn. They’ll be here by and by. But Thomas is the smallest. He can tell us what he sees.’

Grudgingly, they shunted the young bursar to the top of the high wall, where his legs dangled precariously and from which vantage point he was able to look down upon the great procession as it made its way slowly past the kirk towards the New College of St Mary.

‘They’ve been quite around the town. There’s Professor Lamb! And he’s not been seen for years.’

‘Confound Professor Lamb!’ a voice came crossly. ‘Do you see the king?’

‘Aye,’ Thomas faltered, ‘Aye, I think so.’

‘Think so! Can’t you tell?’

‘There are so many people crowded round. He’s sitting on a horse.’

‘A
horse
! Of course he is! Come down and let me look!’

‘No, it
is
significant,’ observed the bursar bowman. ‘It is the horse that marks the man. If he’s sitting on a
high
horse then he’s probably the king.’

Thomas craned his neck. ‘His horse is somewhat higher than the rest,’ he answered doubtfully.

‘Well, what did I tell you? Does he keep his seat?’

‘The horse is barely moving. And he has a man to hold it. Still, he rides it well.’

‘It’s as I thought,’ the bowman said approvingly. ‘What
colour
is the horse?’

‘For pity,’ cried a magistrand. ‘What signifies the colour of his horse? Describe to us the king! His countenance, his clothes.’

‘He is not close enough. I cannot see his face. The professors of St Mary’s are presenting him a speech.’

‘Poor king,’ the boy said rudely. ‘Then he may
never
come.’

‘It
signifies
,’ his bowman friend persisted, ‘for the colour indicates the temper of the horse. The temper of the horse reflects his skill as rider. And his skill as rider marks his aptitude as king.’