Free The Redemption of Alexander Seaton by S.G. MacLean

tethered brought him sharply back to the floor, but still he smiled. ‘Alexander, you are here.’
    ‘I would have been here sooner if they had allowed it. And Jaffray – it was with no little difficulty that they kept our good friend the doctor from storming their walls. He will be with you tomorrow morning at the latest, if his examination of the body keeps him too late.’ I had not wished to talk so soon of the death of Patrick Davidson, but perhaps this was not the place for pleasantries in any case.
    ‘They tell me he was poisoned.’ Charles’s voice had dropped to a low murmur and he did not look at me.
    I cleared some straw out of the way and sat down beside him on the rotting wooden floor. ‘Jaffray will know more by the morning of the nature of the substance itself, and themanner of its administration. Arbuthnott will assist him. We must pray God they will meet with success.’
    He smiled sadly. ‘It is a long time since you exhorted me to prayer, my friend, but I prayed today.’
    ‘I had heard you were found in the kirk. What brought you there, Charles?’
    He shook his head and his shoulders dropped a little lower. He began to speak slowly, unsure of himself. ‘I think I wanted forgiveness.’ I waited, and at length he continued. ‘I did not wish Patrick Davidson well, Alexander. I wished him no harm, but I did not wish him well. I wished him little success in all his endeavours here, and I wished him away from Banff.’
    ‘Because of Marion?’
    ‘What else? Only Marion. In fact, there was no other reason why I should have disliked him. He brought to the apothecary’s table and hearth a liveliness, an interest which had been absent before. He brought with him whole new vistas for conversation. He could converse on herbs and simples and compounds as well as Arbuthnott – and I suspect it was only diplomacy on his part that prevented him showing how much more he knew than his master. But he spoke on many things – places and people he had come to know on the continent, our own universities and their varying merits. And he knew something of music, too. He was no expert, but he had a good ear and was more knowledgeable than most of our fellow burgesses. What I would have given to have been where he had been and heard what he had heard.’
    ‘What do you mean, Charles?’
    ‘I mean the music, the masses in the great cathedrals of France and the Low Countries which have not been reduced to hollow chanting boxes as our churches here have been.’
    ‘You mean the music of the papists.’ Only Charles could have spoken even here so freely and with such contempt of our Church. I feared for him.
    ‘If you like,’ he said, ‘the music of the papists. But Alexander, you have no idea what we have lost.’
    ‘The great human vanities of their ceremonies? Formality and splendours that took no notice of the common man? This is no loss, I think.’
    He smiled at me. ‘Oh, but you are wrong, Alexander. While our poor psalms are for the edification of man, these masses aspire to the ear of God himself. I have seen them in my mind, rising from the pages of those few fragments of choirbooks that escaped the torches of our iconoclasts, but what I would have given to have heard them sung, seen them in their proper places, as Patrick Davidson had done.’ I began then to understand that my friend’s formality in his kirk duties was not from a lack of faith, as I had always believed, but from a different understanding of it, and while I thought him still to be wrong, I loved him the more for it.
    ‘Was Patrick Davidson a papist, Charles?’ I asked.
    He looked surprised. ‘I do not know. We never spoke of it in that way. He spoke to me – when we were in our chamber – of the music and the beauty of the churches. And I played for him. In all, I had begun to think him a friend. And like yourself it is not an accolade I bestow lightly or often.’ He took a heavy breath and continued. ‘But then, of course,