Lammas (4 page)

He lay down on his back and looked up at the sky. Mary sat beside him.

‘Lie with me awhile,' he said. ‘For there are other ways. I can show restraint.'

She laughed at that. ‘You? You never can.'

It was true enough. He rolled on to his front to disguise it from her. ‘I will read to you. From the notable things. One fact for a kiss. Four facts for a—'

‘You are bad,' Mary said. It was a compliment that she had paid before. But now her voice was sad. And Henry at that moment was quite certain what he felt for her. It was more than lust, though he ached with that. It was more than the delusion of a tender boy, scribbled in the margins of his copy book.
At Martinmas, I met a lass, At Candlemas I kissed her, At Whitsuntide, I lay with her, At Lammas tide, I loved her
. It was deep and true.

To still the rush of blood, in heart as well as groin, he opened up the book. ‘Here is one. Stop both your ears with your fingers, and the hiccup will go away within a while after.'

‘How long is a while?' Mary asked.

‘He does not say. But he swears tis proved. Now you owe me a kiss.'

Henry broke a wisp of barley from its stalk and fell to tickling her. She wriggled from his grasp. ‘I do love you,' she said.

He sensed, unthinking then, the cloud behind the words. He knew there was a
but
. He fell back in the grass, and looked up at the blue of a cloudless summer sky. He felt at once, instinctively, what she had to say. He closed his eyes and tried to block it out, to feel the sun, the breath of barley graze him on the cheek, to hear the mellow doves, the murmur of the bees.

‘Henry, don't. Look at me,' she said. ‘I have to talk to you.'

He opened up his eyes, and found her looking down. She spoke the words he did not want to hear. ‘I cannot see you again.'

She told him that there was a man, who had asked for her to be his wife.

‘It will no be for a while. He is prentice to a blacksmith, and he cannot marry till his time is up. My sister says I should. He is a guid man, she says.'

‘How long must you wait, then?' he asked her.

‘Four years, near enough.'

Four years was a lifetime, Henry thought. He could not conceive what it was to wait. In a year's time, he would leave the university. He would be at court, in service to the king. Or fighting overseas, in a foreign war. Life was short and swift. It could not be put off.

‘Mary, stay with me. I will have left here long before then.'

‘I cannot,' she said, ‘or he will not have me.'

‘I love you.'

‘I believe that you do. But ye ken full well that you will not marry me.'

‘I never telt you that.' It was true, of course.

‘You did not have to say it, for I always knew. Look at you down there, with your books and bow, and your brave new coat. How could you marry me? I do not blame you for it. But my sister says I have to take this chance, or no one else will want me, once my lord has gone.'

‘I bought the book for you,' he said, bewildered at her words.

She kissed him on the cheek. ‘I owe you for the fact. And I will not forget. When I have the hiccups, I will think of you. But you must keep the book. I have no use for it.'

(5)

Hew and Frances reached the town a little after twelve. They watched the races at the links, and met with Robert Lachlan there. The men that Robert had engaged showed themselves as fleet and strong, and Hew approved his choice.

‘Ye canna tell the mettle of a man till he is tested,' Robert said. ‘And strength is not itself a mark of courage. Still, it is a start.'

‘When do they begin?' asked Hew. ‘The barley is not ripe for reaping yet.'

‘Then we shall have a week or twa to break them in. I have telt them they should show at eleven on the morn, and every morning after that at dawn. They will be drunk tonight.'

‘Do they know what they come for?' Frances asked. Robert glanced at Hew, who answered in his place.

‘Their labour on the land is all we ask, for now. They will be here till Michaelmas. And after that – God knows. Robert, is there news?'

‘Rumour is all. The country hauds its breath. There are beacons set, all around the coast, but none of them yet lit. The harbour is the place for news. Folk will gather at the inn there when the fair is done. I will move among them.'

‘If you hear aught, come find me. We may be at my sister's house,' Hew said.

Robert left them then, to begin his reconnaissance in the taverns of the town.

‘Bella does not like him going to that inn,' Frances pointed out.

‘He will be at work. He goes to spy for us.'

‘That will not stop him drinking.'

‘It should not stop him drinking. He must fit the part.'

‘He fits it far too well.' Frances sighed. ‘Was he not married, once, to the woman there?'

‘For another purpose, in another world.'

Hew steered his wife gently from the subject back into the town and through the market place. There they met Giles Locke, giddy with his bairns, buying gingerbreads. ‘Meg is expecting you,' Giles said to Frances. ‘She sent us with a list, which we have fulfilled. Fair winds for the morrow. Everything is set.'

‘What is tomorrow?' asked Hew.

‘The harvest, I suppose.' Frances said. ‘We should have a goose for the men at Michaelmas. What do you think?'

Meg was with a patient. But she came out at once when they arrived. ‘Your coming is fortunate, Hew. I have someone here who has been asking for you. He is not a man given to impose or to press himself in any way. He is modest and restrained. And yet I have the sense his need is urgent. He would like to speak with you. His name is Walter Bone.'

‘Walter.' The name was not unknown to Hew, and yet he could not place it.

‘He owns the harbour inn,' Meg said. ‘He says you handled the conveyance, when he took it on from Maude.'

Hew said slowly, ‘Aye, I did.' The mention of it caused in him a prickle of foreboding, which he did not understand. Perhaps it was coincidence, for Robert had but lately spoken of the harbour as a place for news. That news they looked for, endlessly, in dread. Robert and Maude Benet at the harbour inn. A life, a world away. No good could come from there.

‘I will see him,' he said.

‘I hoped you would. He is in my still house, where he came for medicines. Canny Bett is with him. Send her out to us. Frances, I have something for you in the kitchen. And Giles has promised . . .'

Hew left them to their talk. Meg dispensed medicines from the small house in her garden, stilled from the flowers and herbs she grew. Here, there was no wind, the garden seemed to hang in the heavy heat, yet the air inside remained fresh and cool. As Hew came to the door, he felt a shadow fall. There is nothing here to fear, he told himself.

It was Canny Bett, full of smiles and bluster, on her way back out. ‘Did you not want to go to the fair?' he asked her.

‘Fairs are for lovers and bairns, and I am fair trauchled wi both,' Canny said. ‘The doctor has gone wi the weans, to gie us a moment of peace. We maun mak shift for the morn.'

‘What happens then?'

‘If you dinna ken, then I surely don't.'

Walter Bone was sitting in Meg's chair. He stood up when Hew came in, though he did not do so rapidly, or easily. He was not a man of an open disposition. But there was no mistaking the emotion in his face. It was made up quite plainly of relief. But the relief was a mask upon a deeper kind of feeling. That feeling was not physical pain, though the physical pain might be read as an expression of it. The pain was acute. But it could not reflect the depth of feeling that lay underneath. It distracted from it. It was not its expression, but another kind of mask.

Walter said, ‘It is fortune that brings you here. I hoped to see you in the town today. But I did not expect it. I ken that the college where you work is closed.'

At the same time, Hew thought, whatever fate has brought me here, whatever fortune is, it cannot be good. This is an ill wind. He said simply, politely, ‘It happened that we came to watch the races at the links.'

Walter shifted, as through pain. ‘I was there myself. Not long. But long enough.'

‘How can I help you?' asked Hew.

‘I want to make a will,' Walter said.

So simple a request was not what Hew expected, and he almost laughed at it, or rather at himself, for fearing so much worse. He answered readily, ‘There is a man in the mercat place will draw that up for you. He is very sound. I use him myself. If you like, I will make the recommendation.'

But Walter shook his head. ‘It is you I want. The will is not straightforward. It will be hard to prove. There is a guid chance that it will be contested. I need a man who can ensure that the terms will still stand, however untoward or difficult the circumstance. We do not have long. I may die very soon. Tomorrow perhaps, or the next day.'

‘I am sorry to hear that,' said Hew. ‘Are you so very unwell?'

‘I am not well. But that is not the point. There is a possibility that later on today I may kill a man. And, if I do, I expect to hang for it.' His words were careful, clear. They were not the product of a seething of emotion, but carefully thought out.

This is my fortune, thought Hew. It was never simple, from the start. It was not meant to be. He was sent to me, and I cannot refuse him. He took a breath, and seemed to launch himself headlong from a precipice, airless, dizzy, blind. And yet when he spoke he was completely in control. He said simply, ‘As your man of law, that is not a course of action that I should advise.'

‘I do not propose it lightly,' Walter said. ‘And yet I am persuaded that it cannot be escaped.'

‘If I were you,' said Hew, ‘I would put my mind to making my escape from it. For if you proceed with it, the testament you make will be null and void. You will be indicted for murder, of forethocht felony, which is a plea of the Crown. When you are convicted for it, your goods will be forfeit.'

‘It is for that,' Walter said, ‘that I require a lawyer who is subtle and distinct. But it will not be forethocht felony. It will be melee chaussee. I will swing for the sheriff, not for the king.'

‘That might be so,' said Hew, ‘had you not telt me plain what were your intentions. That is malice aforethought, beyond a doubt.'

‘I have told them to you,' Walter said, ‘and to no one else. And, as your client, I spoke to you in confidence.'

The consequence of this was difficult for Hew, and he did not choose to address it now. Instead, he pointed out, ‘Suppose you kill a man in hot blood, and come before the sheriff court. The likelihood is that the dead man's dependants will seek reparation, and that they will be granted it, and will seize your goods. Again, your will is void.'

‘That,' Walter said, ‘is what I expect to happen. I rely on you to see that it will stand. For the fact is that the person the crime may hurt the most is the person I intend to make my heir. Your role is to speak out and defend that case if any other person tries to make a claim.'

‘This is a pursuit,' said Hew, ‘I cannot recommend. Nor can I see a way to bring it easily about. Yet I am prepared to help to make your will.'

When the will had been drawn, and a passing clerk called in to witness it, he attempted to dissuade his client once again.

‘If it can be helped, then it will be helped,' Walter said. ‘This is a precaution against a last resort.'

‘You will not tell me, I suppose, who you want to kill?'

But Walter's trust in him did not extend so far.

‘Whatever is the grudge, put it from your mind,' Hew urged. ‘No good ever comes from a vengeful death. I have known murderers. And the wrongs they did have lived long, on and on, a blight upon the lives of all those they had loved. No goods in this world are worth the hurt of that.'

‘You are right, of course. I thank you for your counsel,' Walter said. ‘God willing, and the world, it will never come to pass.'

They parted at the house, and Hew watched Walter make his way, painfully and slowly, to the mill port and the harbour where he kept his inn. Hew took comfort from the fact that Robert would be watching there. He doubted whether Walter had the strength to kill a man. But he did not doubt his mind. He returned to Meg. ‘What ails him?' he asked her. ‘What have you prescribed?'

‘You know I cannot tell you that,' said Meg. ‘What did he ask of you?'

‘You know I cannot tell you that,' he said.

(6)

Elspet had returned before the clock struck four. Sliddershanks appeared surprised. ‘You came back,' he said.

‘Why would I not?'

‘For tis early yet. Was the fair no guid?'

Elspet said, ‘It was the best.'

‘That is guid, then. I see it. You have a light,' he said oddly.

‘A light?' Elspet was reckless in her happiness. It was spilling over, and she could not keep it in. It was a dancing inside her.

‘As though you caught the sun.'

‘It is warm today.' Elspet looked round. ‘What do you want me to do now?'

‘See to the kitchins. We will be busy tonight.'

Already, she was tying on her apron, to cover her blue gown. She wore Michael's ribbons pinned up on her breast. Her hand went instinctively to keep them in their place. Sliddershanks was watching her. ‘Bonny, that,' he said. ‘Silver and blue. The colours of the sea.'

‘The colours of the town,' Elspet said.

‘Oh, aye. I suppose you won it for a prize. What did you have to dae for it?'

‘Dae for it?' Elspet faltered, frowned. ‘Someone must have won it, but it wasnae me. I fund it in the sand.'

Sliddershanks looked sad. ‘Some lassie will be missing it,' he said.

Elspet remained in the kitchen as he had telt her. At intervals, he came with crockery to wash, and left with bowls of broth and plates of bread and cheese. After a time he did not come back. She could hear a tumult in the public room, and somewhere further off, the braying of the pipes. She went through to the house, and found it filled with men, calling to be served. Empty trays and cups were piled up on the counter. She heard Joan complaining ‘Wheesht, wait yer turn'. Elspet called out to her, ‘Have you no help?'