Free Hue and Cry by Shirley McKay Page A

Matthew had not seen him grow into a man. Now he observed the change in his son. Hew was a little more assertive and assured, though he had kept his boyish looks, for like his father he was fair, and struggled to maintain a beard. He had an open manner that would serve him well in court. It was Matthew’s dearest wish to see his son become an advocate. And yet he had misgivings. Though he did not doubt the sharpness of Hew’s mind, he sensed an underlying softness that appeared to be at odds with it. Hew gave his heart too easily, which threatened to distract him from the rigours of the law. He was too compassionate, too easily drawn in. When advocates were painting black as white, Hew would be distracted by the grey. And always, from a child, he recognised the
pity
of the thing, the human side. He was wary and fanciful, given to nightmares, dismayed by the cruelties of everyday life. The thoroughness of his schooling, where he had excelled, had not subdued or satisfied him. Always he had seemed to search for something else. Now the boy sat brooding, in a darkplace. Matthew did not like to see him there. He cleared his throat. ‘I notice that your things were here before you,’ he remarked. ‘Where did you sleep last night?’
    Miserably, Hew downed his cup. ‘With my friend, Giles Locke.’
    ‘
Giles Locke
,’ Matthew tried it like a claret on his tongue. ‘Do I know the name?’
    ‘He was my friend in Paris,’ Hew explained. ‘He’s a physician, an anatomist of sorts, who lectures in philosophy. We shared rooms at the College d’Ecossais. The new foundation requires the university to elect a mediciner as principal of the Auld College, though physic is not taught there in the schools. Giles came hoping to persuade them to reform, but both were disappointed, for the college is dismayed by his keenness and his youth.’
    ‘How old is he?’ asked Meg.
    ‘No more than eight and twenty. You would like him, I think,’ Hew looked across at Matthew. ‘He’s a closet papist like yourself.’
    His father feigned astonishment. ‘I don’t know what you mean.’
    ‘He came a month or two ago to St Salvator’s,’ continued Hew. ‘But he’s unhappy there.’
    ‘And he a closet papist?’ Matthew teased.
    Hew sighed. ‘There have been problems at the university. And I don’t know if you heard, there has been trouble in the town. A boy was killed.’
    In Giles Locke’s north street tower a sleeping figure stirred. Nicholas felt something tighten its grip round his forearm as another sharp blade sank deep in his flesh. He thought that he could fight it, but the grip was too strong. His lips moved soundlessly as the blood began to flow. Someone was whispering ‘
Nicholas
’, watching his life slip away. He knew he was in Hell, and that his blood would ebb and flow forever, constant as the tides. But God had allowed him the solace of quietness. God was kind; he allowed him to sleep. He could hear only a far muffled drum, growing fainter, feeling it echoing slow in his heart.
    The doctor stemmed the flow and sniffed the contents ofthe bowl, rich as a thick Gascon wine. Satisfied, he set the cup aside and tied the linen strip more tightly round the vein. He touched a little water to his sleeping patient’s lips, wiping away a strand of green bile. The stomach was empty, the waters ran clear and he had drawn off a quart of steaming black blood. He hoped the patient’s humours were restored. Though privately he doubted it, for the limb below the sheet stank putrid and hot. He laced the room with a wreath of sweet herbs to counter the smell. He ate his dinner by the patient’s bedside, a bad piece of mutton floating in broth, and longed for the cookshops of France. There was blood on his sleeve. It spotted the page of his book as he settled to read in the light of the lamp. When the patient lay quiet at last, he set down his book and took his pulse. He sat through the night while Nicholas slept, composing a letter