Queen & Country (34 page)

Therefore, he had qualms when he came to Holy Trinity, where the elders met. The case they put before him was delicate and strange and not at all what he had been expecting. He tried, in vain, to cite Leviticus, ‘And if a stranger sojourn with thee in your land, ye shall not vex him. But the stranger that dwelleth with you, shall be as one of yourselves, and thou shalt love him as thyself.' Leviticus had opened up Pandora's Box of tricks. And he could not deny that action must be taken. They could not allow such flagrant immorality to go unobserved.

‘They are living openly, and as man and wife,' an elder said.

‘But,' he countered feebly, ‘how can we sure the act has taken place?'

The man to his right, a broad-shouldered baxter, leant over to him kindly, and whispered in his ear, respectful of his feelings as the sort of clergyman who had spent his whole life sheltered in a college. He blinked at the words. ‘Ah, then, I see. Does she indeed. Then I approve of it, quite.'

A summons was drawn up, and the principal agreed, heavy in his heart, that he would go himself, to serve it in the place complicit in offence. The house at Kenly Green was within his parish boundaries, and all of its inhabitants fell under his own charge.

Hew, not expecting this visit from the master of the college that was close and dear to him, received him well and cordially. He allowed the man to say what he had to say, without attempting to distract him, or to put up a defence. And when, at the last, the principal concluded, ‘And there it is. I must say, I am sorry for it. But it can't be helped.' Hew acceded quietly, accepting the summons that was in the master's hand.

When the man had gone, Hew turned the letter over in his hand. He sat thoughtful a moment. When resolution came, he did not call to Frances, who had gone upstairs, nor indeed to Meg, but left the house, and walked, by the garden walls, to the Kenly stable, where his horse was kept. There, he found Robert Lachlan talking with the groom. And he served Robert Lachlan with the summons from the kirk, to compear before the session on the first of May, where he stood accused, of carnal conversation with the servant, Bella Frew.

Canny Bett, in the kitchen, scolded the serving maid. ‘You silly bisum, Bella, why would ye tell them that ye were with child?'

Bella answered, with a flounce. ‘Mebbe, I am.'

‘You cannot ken that yet.'

‘Aye, mebbe not. But, if I am not, I will be in time. The kirk will not hurt me for it, if I am with bairn. And he will have to marry me.'

‘He is marrit now, you silly, silly loun.'

Canny Bett had witnessed, when Robert married Maude, the
keeper of the harbour inn, before they left for Ghent. There, he had entrusted her to the Flemish nuns. But only Hew knew that.

‘Aye, to a nun. It was never consummated.'

‘He telt you that? Then you are dafter, Bella, even than I thought.'

But Bella was not daft.

Robert Lachlan came to the kirk of Holy Trinity, to compear before the session, as the court required, on the 1st of May. Some among the council were surprised to see him there. Others were dismayed. And one or two were quickened to exaggerated pride and pleasure to have caught so fierce and stout a fish, in their hopeful net.

Robert was a stranger there. And as a stranger to the parish, of a rough demeanour and a tendency to drink, and to corrupt the lassies, powerless to his charms, some had held the hope their writ would see him off, without he had to linger there, to darken their bright kirk. The hammer in the spoke had been Bella Frew, who if she had a bairn, would look to some support. And whatever sustenance could not be squeezed from him, would default on them.

The sight of this soldier, captive like Samson, shorn in their midst, caused the fainter-hearted there a frisson of alarm, and the braggardly, a pride that blew out in a blast. They could not conceive that they had caught him quietly.

Some of them, indeed, were put out to discover that he had not come alone, but had brought a friend to speak in his defence. It was not usual for a man to come before the session with his lawyer with him. ‘Do ye think,' one of the elders had put to him, ‘you will hae an advocate, in your final judgement, when you come to God? When you greet and tremble, on your knees before him, to quimper in the dust? Believe me, you will not.'

But Hew had put the case. Since Robert Lachlan was a stranger to the parish, he required a person of estate to vouch for his good character. Such a one was he. Secondly, he refuted, absolutely, the accusation of adultery, that was put to him. The session kent full well that Robert Lachlan had a wife, for he had married in that
parish, five years before, Maude Benet of the harbour inn. Unless he could show proof to them that the wife was dead, he was an adulter, and a villain therefore of a heinous kind. Hew bore witness that the premise to this charge was false, with what appeared to be an extraordinary defence. Robert Lachlan's wife had left him on his wedding night, and gone to be a nun.

The elders were blawn out at this, deflated of their wind. ‘Dear me,' one consoled, ‘a most unhappy man.'

Robert Lachlan hung his head, and did not say a word.

At last, when Hew concluded making his defence, and bumbaized and bemused them with piercing points of law, they were agreed, that in view of the delinquent's plain and abject penitence, and Bella's parlous state, the charge would be reduced, to the lesser one of anti-nuptial fornication, and the couple would be married, after standing up on seven separate Sundays, repenting, at the kirk. This sentence Robert Lachlan took upon himself with so calm a meekness it drove many from their pleasure at it to a silent fear, and those who saw him standing, naked in his shirt, thoughtful as the lion chained up in its stall, did not stop to stare, but hurried past uneasily. Bella, for her part, stood by him bold and proud, and not a bit abashed.

Robert Lachlan's answer had astonished Hew, for never had he known him turn off from a challenge or resist a fight. ‘What will you do?' he had asked, when Bella's indiscretion first had come to light. And Robert had replied, ‘Marry her, I doubt.'

Robert was, quite plainly, not the marrying sort. His marriage to Maude Benet had been a convenience, which, as it turned out, was not convenient now.

‘Do you think,' Hew pressed, ‘tis true that she's with child?'

Robert had shrugged. ‘Probably not.'

‘And you do not care?'

‘Probably not.' Robert had leaned back against the stable wall, sucking at a straw he bit between his teeth, as though he had no trouble to disturb him in the world.

‘The truth is,' he allowed, ‘I like the little lass. She has a kind of spark to her.'

‘But she has trapped you here. She has telt tales on you, to the kirk session,' Hew had pointed out.

‘Aye, I ken.' Robert grinned. ‘Canny, is she not?'

And so he held his peace, and stood to bow his head, for seven Sundays dry and wet, barefoot in the church. The avaricious kirkmen triumphed in his fall. But it was not their kirk, that held him humbled there. It was Bella Frew.

For Hew's own case with Frances, peaceful resolution did not come so easily. At the close of Robert's trial, Hew had begged a word, private and in confidence, with the college principal. What he had to say there darkened that man's face. ‘I cannot help you, Hew. I will not read the banns without the king's consent, and while we are at odds with all who are from England, I cannot marry you. I cannot, do you see, implicate the college. The best I can do, is to turn a blind eye. And since you are remote, and do not live in town, the chance is you may live there free from jealous scrutiny, unless and until your wife should fall with child. For then, I think, some questions may be asked.'

There was little Hew could do, and he left there malcontent and furious in mind, that he could not solve the riddle and appease the king. The weeks he spent with Frances, closed at Kenly Green, were heady and idyllic, and for a snatch at paradise, might well have sufficed. But they were both aware, they did not make a life.

It was Frances who resolved it, in the end. It was early June, and the lace and silks that she and Meg had brought home from the Senzie fair had long since been cut up and stitched into a dress, that was put away, with petals and sweet herbs to chase away the moths. She and Hew were lying, close in bed together, in a still contentment that required no words, and where, for several minutes, neither of them spoke. Then Frances mentioned, quietly and tentative, ‘I have found something out. And, you were right. Bronckhorst is the answer to your pleated painting.'

Her husband smiled at her. He had begun to grow used to her shy intelligence. Frances was thoughtful, quiet, and contemplative. She noticed and observed, and over a long while, worked out her thoughts. But he did not expect much to come of this. There was no scrap or clue he had not worked up in his mind, thoroughly and endlessly. ‘And how have you done that?' he asked.

She hesitated then. ‘I wrote of it to Tom. I have written to him several other times. The first, when you went south to see the king.'

‘You wrote to Tom? To
Tom
?'

And though he understood it was not meant for treachery, he felt, with every stretching sinew of his heart, betrayed.

‘And what were wrong with that? He is my cousin, Hew,' Frances said defensively.

‘A cousin such as that . . . you do not
like
him, Frances,' he exclaimed.

‘I had not thought I did. But things take different colours far away from home.'

He saw her tremble then, and was overcome with pity and with guilt, to hide from her his fears. ‘Of course they do. Forgive me. Tell me, Frances.' He dared not conceive the damage she had done. For none knew more than he, the end result of letters that were sent to Tom, what weapons they became, in Thomas Phelippes' hands. Had Frances fallen in, so helplessly and guilelessly? ‘Why did you write to
him?'

Frances said, ‘It was not him, at first. I wrote to my uncle and aunt. I asked for their forgiveness, which they did not grant. Only Tom replied. He wrote such words of kindness, Hew. He said he understood, and he admired my courage. I think it did amuse him, that we snatched away behind my uncle's back. He promised he would treat for me, with my aunt and uncle, and that in due course, we might be reconciled. He gave me his support, and encouraged me to write.'

‘Of course he did.' Hew suppressed the bitter words that gathered in his mind. He understood her homesickness, had gone through it himself. Then Frances had helped him. When she was alone, he had
been absent, looking for painters. And Phelippes understood, precisely how to prey upon that vulnerability. It made Hew sick at heart. ‘The most revealing letters,' Laurence had once told him, ‘are those of the wives.' And none was more adept at reading them than Phelippes.

‘But how did you send them?' he asked. By what skew means had Frances found a post, when all lines were closed? It did not quite seem credible.

‘Matthew's tutor sent them from St Mary's College. And he brought Tom's back with him.'

He stared at her. ‘What? You trusted your letters to a foreign kirkman? Why would you do that?'

‘Because he offered, Hew. And there was no one else. You had gone away. And I could not be sure, if you would come back.'

‘Of course I would come back. Did I not tell you? Why not ask Giles?'

‘Because I was not sure that I could trust him.'

‘Not trust Giles? The dearest truest friend that ever lived? Yet you trust a kirkman you have barely met?'

‘Giles Locke was a man I had barely met. You must understand, I made a leap of faith in coming here with you. I kept my faith, but when you were not here, I was on my own. I did not think that Giles was friendly to my kind. I thought him to be . . . of that queen's party.'

‘And even if he were, he would never let that colour or impair his judgement. He is not that kind of man. If you sensed a distance in him, it was that he feared some harm might come to you, troubled at the time; he never was the source of it,' Hew cried. He was far less guarded now, less civil in his tone to her, appalled at what he heard.

‘I understand that now,' she said. ‘I did not see it then.'

‘The tutor, who sent on your letters. What was in it for him?'

‘Some books in your library he wanted to read. He said they were rare.'

‘Did he, now indeed?'

Frances stared at him. ‘What are you, Hew, my uncle, now? Am I not made aware, that I belong to you? That all I have is yours? And
that were little, too.' Her eyes were pricked and wet, with scathing, angry tears. ‘Are you so jealous, Hew?'

‘It is not that.' He would not for the world have her reduced to tears, or bowed before his will.

‘Not in the way that you think. Tom Phelippes is a spy, for the English Crown. Our countries are now facing a crisis of security. If all the while, you have sent him word about our king . . . the secrets I have told you, while we were in bed . . .'

‘You think I have no sense, to have told him that? That I would blab and spill, the secrets of your heart?' she cried.

‘Not willingly, perhaps. But he has the skill, to tease and penetrate. Your cousin Tom has strung you, like the lute you used to play.'

It was a sharp enough thrust, and Frances flinched from it. She answered him coldly. ‘You are so fixed upon conspiracies that it has made you cruel. I did not think you cruel, Hew, else I would not have come. How did you come so cruel?'

His heart pricked with remorse. He did not want to quarrel with her over Tom. At the same time, she cried, ‘Oh, let us be friends! I cannot bear it, if we are at odds!'

And what did it matter, in truth? What more harm was done, now that all was out? That queen, as someone bold had pointed out to James, in nature's course, was bound to die ahead, and leave her son to mourn; once dead, her death by weeping or by force, could never be undone. And letters that were sent, could not be unsent, what damage they might do, was already done.